by Alex Wellen
Ruth Mulrooney is sponsoring today’s implosion. She promptly sucks the air out of the room and unfurls, triggering a catastrophic magnitude 9.0 earthquake.
She turns to Cookie and screams at the top of her lungs: “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”
Cookie freezes, still pointing her cane in Arnie’s direction. Ruth smacks the walking stick down and gets right up in Cookie’s face, knocking Cookie off-balance and into a shelf of vitamins.
“You are such a bully!” Ruth tells her, jamming her finger in Cookie’s face. “You’ve always been a bully. You think you’re the only one who’s ever experienced pain? Or suffering? Or loss?”
The Lemon Lollies are solidifying. I desperately page through Gregory’s notebook in search of any tips on reversing the process, but find nothing.
Ruth points to Lara, and then me: “This family has taken care of you and yours for decades, and this is how you repay them? By threatening lawsuits? By promising prison? You’re so pathetic, Clarice! Really.”
Corey times his finale with the end of Grandma Ruth Mulrooney’s rant. But now Arnie is too quiet. His mouth is wide open and it’s his turn to suck the air out of the room. Apparently Ruth has triggered a second, even stronger implosion. Run for your lives!
It is that split second—before Arnie explodes and after the sludge has solidified—that I’m struck with a cyclotron of my own. My invention might not be as Nobel Prize-worthy as Ernest O. Lawrence’s, but it’s not half-bad, either.
The scream that follows is ear piercing. Lara covers her ears as Arnie cries hysterically. That’s when I reach underneath the cash register, grab one of Gregory’s last remaining Red Rocket candy rings, and pop it in Arnie’s mouth.
Silence!
Arnie enthusiastically sucks the candy ring at a ferocious rate.
Cookie’s already out of here. Seabiscuit has had enough, too. He waves good-bye to Lara and exits quickly. Ruth gently takes the singing bass from her grandson, collects her bags, and briskly escorts Arnie out.
Lara is frozen in time: she never let go of the blue bin of water, but the dish is ruined. I haven’t made Lemon Lollies—I’ve made a Lemon Lolly. The yellow syrup has completely congealed. The wooden spoon easily separates from the pot along with its entire contents.
I hold the gargantuan pot-shaped lollipop up to her face.
“Now you’re going to want to pace yourself with this one,” I instruct Lara.
Lara studies it and, after a startled moment, bursts into laughter. This is the first time I’ve seen her laugh like this, and she laughs and cries until tears run down her face.
I rub her back softly.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise her. “Please don’t cry.”
Lara manages a meek smile.
“It’s going to be okay. I have an idea,” I tell her.
CHAPTER 28
The Honorable Thing
THE shrubbery lining the Brewster driveway camouflages my presence. Through Gregory’s binoculars, I have a clear shot inside the Days’ living room. Glimpses reveal a harried woman. This is how Paige looks when she’s running late.
That’s when I hear him. Tyler Rich and his Mercedes veggie mobile. You can make out Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’s diesel engine from a mile away.
Just as Tyler Rich pulls into Gregory’s driveway Paige runs out with a garment bag over her shoulder. He goes to help her, but she dismissively waves him off. Paige is dressed in that velour, powder blue sweat suit that I hate so much—the one that I purchased for her and we promised to burn together.
Right before getting in his car, she turns to me and waves good-bye.
This has got to be the height of humiliation. I can’t even manage to stalk her properly. We haven’t spoken since she stormed out of my car all Sandra Dee-like. But I don’t want to be rude, so I reach out through the bushes and sheepishly wave back.
Only then do I realize that she isn’t greeting me at all. The binoculars have distorted my perspective. I drop them around my neck and realize that Paige is waving to the woman thirty feet to my left. Cookie goes food shopping every day at 2:30 P.M. sharp, but like Paige, she, too, is running behind schedule. Ever since Sid was admitted to the hospital, we’re all out of sorts.
Paige and her new beau zoom off with Cookie right behind them. I step out onto the driveway and brush myself off. I haven’t got much time.
Both the front and back doors of the Brewster home are locked, but the window to the dining room is wide open—the most common form of air-conditioning in the Bay Area. Bending the aluminum frame of the screen beyond repair, I pop it off its track and slither my way through the kitchen window.
Loki cocks her head to one side, trying to make sense of the burglary in progress. What looks and feels like a quiet “dog implosion” is a false alarm. Lying there on the floor, I reach over and gently pet the pup on her head.
Without a peep, Loki offers to show me around. We start in the master bedroom. On Sid’s bed stand is a stack of rejection letters from some of the largest manufacturers in the world, all of them addressed to “Euraka Productions.” Sid’s been shielding me from the harsh truth: Ford, Timex, Lowe’s, Chevrolet, Estée Lauder, Converse, Petco, Blue Nile, Nine West, Johnson & Johnson—not a single company has an encouraging word to say about our blade-less windshield wipers, tripod ladders, dog umbrellas, adjustable heels, pill rings, makeup applicators, or side-access sneakers. I lay the letters back on his bed stand and continue my search.
First Sid’s dresser. Then Cookie’s bureau and bed stand. Before long, Loki and I are rifling through the Brewster closets and breaking into boxes. Nothing.
The large cherry cedar hope chest at the foot of the bed calls out to be searched. I tip the lid open and the large mirror on the reverse side makes me jump. My reflection reminds me: You shouldn’t be doing this. Organized neatly inside the ancient ark are old photographs, child immunization records, birth certificates, diplomas, a wedding veil, a silk baby pillow, cotton blanket, baby shoes, and even a terrifying clear plastic baggie of baby teeth and hair—it’s hard to estimate how many children are represented in this Zip loc.
It is inside the hope chest that I find the original Western Union Sid sent Cookie at 10:10 A.M. on September 27, 1945. In the London telegram, Sid asks Cookie whether she’d like to have dinner with him in New York City later that week. Clarice Schwartz and Sidney Brewster’s marriage certificate is rubber-banded to a thick stack of letters. The water-stained one on top is postmarked March 4, 1943, and is stamped Tripoli, Libya. The answer to my question may very well lie in these letters, but I won’t dig through them: breaking into their house and rummaging through their most personal belongings is enough; I can’t bring myself to read their private, most intimate exchanges.
Just short of declaring this hope chest hopeless, I find what I’m looking for: a small square manila envelope addressed to Sidney Brewster from an Air Force base in Bolling Field, Maryland. The envelope contains a brown plastic index card with “Army of the United States” printed across the top in white lettering. Underneath the military seal it reads:
This is to certify that
SIDNEY SILVIO BREWSTER 25 344 154
AVIATION TECHNICIAN THIRD GRADE H B G 376 12TH A F
is hereby discharged under other than honorable
conditions from the military service of the
United States of America.
The discharge papers are dated December 5, 1945, and signed by Colonel Theodore M. Singleton. On the back side is all of Sid’s personal information, including a Brooklyn address, where he went to school (Lincoln High School), physical description (green eyes, dark complexion, notation of a half-inch scar on his left ring finger and a blemish on the anterior of his right shoulder), service locations in Africa and Europe, and his monthly salary when discharged: $96.00. The location designated for his thumbprint is blank, as are the travel allowance section and the area reserved for “Decorations, medals, and badges.”
/> “‘Other than honorable conditions,’” I tell Loki, rereading it.
Loki is as puzzled as I am. But then, in not so many words, she suggests we move on and get something to eat. I’m hungry, too, and Cookie will be home soon.
I carefully place everything back in the hope chest exactly the way I found it and we go to the kitchen. Loki’s treats are in the cabinet above the sink and I help myself to a salami and Swiss cheese sandwich using Cookie’s last two slices of white bread and some soggy lettuce.
The Brewster kitchen might as well be a mini Day’s Pharmacy. Lined along the counter are dozens of medications. Cookie and Sid use blue and pink plastic pillboxes marked with the day of the week to remind them of what to take when.
Chewing on my sandwich, I survey the awesome collection. Some are empties. Others are duplicates. Most of the scripts are familiar. The labels on many of the plastic bottles suggest the contents are expired—in some cases the dates go back as far as the mid-1990s. But in all likelihood, most of the pills are new; Cookie and Sid are prone to recycle.
Dr. Yeardling wants to know everything Sid’s taking, so on a scrap piece of paper I make a list of the few prescriptions that don’t ring a bell—mostly stuff Gregory filled years ago.
When Loki hears something, she darts into the living room, leaping up and onto the couch. Unable to negotiate the plastic casing, she slides headfirst into the armrest. Above the pooch is that spectacular sepia-toned poster of Sid and Cookie. The skyscraper, Sid’s knee, Cookie’s curls, that ring, the perfect proposal, the engagement story of engagement stories. I study the photograph with a renewed perspective. Other than honorable conditions. Maybe Sid’s not wearing a military peacoat after all.
I examine the still, looking to Cookie for a clue. The twinkle in her eyes suggests something. That’s when Present-Day Cookie pulls into the driveway. Loki’s been anticipating her. I consider fleeing out the back door, but instead decide to take her head-on. Holding back the small dog, I walk out the front door.
Welcome home!
The eighty-two-year-old is still in the trunk of her car rustling up her groceries. When the screen door slams shut behind me, Cookie twirls around in shock. She points her cane at me with contempt. Chewing the last bits of my sandwich, I take two steps closer and slowly raise both hands like a stickup. Then before I can explain, she jabs the rubber tip of her cane right below my rib cage and I splutter salami and cheese all over the driveway.
“What’s with you?” I cry rubbing my chest.
“You’re going to clean that up,” she talks over me.
I reach down inside the trunk to bunch together her groceries and she thwacks me hard on the small of my back with her stick.
“You broke into my house!” she cries as I yelp in pain.
“I thought you were home!” I scream. “The front door was open!”
“Yeah, right. Tell it to the cops.”
I follow Cookie inside. When she makes a move for the phone mounted on the kitchen wall, I block her path.
“Move!” she demands.
“Please just have a seat. You’re entitled to be angry,” I tell her.
Our faces are inches apart. We’re both exhausted. She throws her hands up in frustration, limps over to the kitchen table, and delicately takes a seat. The plastic cushion lets out a soft sigh.
“I’ll just call the authorities once you leave,” she says, folding her hands on her tummy. “Unless you plan on killing me, too?”
“You and I both know I had nothing to do with putting Sid in the hospital.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Sid never went into cardiac arrest when Gregory did the pill fillin’ around here.”
Cookie’s right. Sid’s recent escapade has shaken my confidence. I’m constantly second-guessing myself. Every day I’m placing vulnerable men and women in heightened physical danger. Sid detonated, and the rest of our patrons are ticking time bombs. There are too many prescriptions; the pills look too much alike; no one is checking my work.
“After I report you to the police, I’m going to walk right across the street and tell that fiancée of yours everything,” she threatens.
“Go ahead! I couldn’t care less at this point,” I say, walking over to her medicine counter. I grab a crusted-over eyedropper and shake it in her direction: “Half these prescriptions expired last century, you know. You love blaming me, but the two of you aren’t exercising a whole lot of caution.”
“How about you stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
While we’re on the topic: “Explain something to me, Cookie. When Sid was having his heart attack, why didn’t he choose to go to the VA Hospital?” I ask.
“He was too busy having his heart attack.”
“No, seriously. Sid told me he wasn’t allowed to go there,” I bluff.
“That’s a lie,” Cookie barks.
“What is? That he said it or he wasn’t allowed?”
Cookie narrows her eyes and considers her response.
“Is it the same reason he doesn’t use the Veterans Affairs Hospital to fill your prescriptions?”
Cookie continues with her frozen stare. Belligerence, hostility, anger, antagonism, scorn, contempt—I’m equipped to deal with Cookie’s entire range of emotions, but not the silent treatment. She’s starting to worry me.
“Hey.” I wave my hand in her face to get a reaction and confirm she’s still breathing. “What just happened? A minute ago you were reaming me out.”
Cookie doesn’t flinch.
“Hello?” I snap my fingers. “Was it my line of questioning? Forget what I said,” I plead, pulling up a seat next to her. “Don’t be mad at me, Cookie. Everyone’s mad at me. I’m sorry.”
Nothing.
“Say something—anything—and I’ll leave. Then you can even call the police.”
Cookie won’t speak to me. She won’t move. She wants me to go away and after another couple of excruciating minutes of silence, I do.
CHAPTER 29
Pacify Her
ON JANUARY 13, 1987, ten years and ten days after Gregory Day invented his “medicine-dispensing pacifier,” two thousand miles away, in the tiny town of Dequincy Louisiana, with a population no larger than Crockett, Jesse Clegg filed a patent application for a “medicine feeder.” The pacifier depicted in Clegg’s technical drawings could have been photocopied straight out of Gregory’s composition notebook. Clegg’s device shows a plastic nipple and a small squeeze bottle connected via a long plastic tube just like the one Gregory drew.
In describing the need for this “new and novel apparatus,” Clegg eloquently wrote:
The task of feeding medicine to a small child or infant, especially when the latter is very sick or uncomfortable, is often a painful experience for both the child and the person attempting to feed the child. The spoon containing the medicine is generally always rejected, and often, due to the urgency of the occasion, force is used to open the child’s mouth. This, aside from mental pain and anguish, sometimes results in bruised gums or lips, especially, as often is the case, when the child is awakened from sleep.
(“Mental pain and anguish.” Boy, they knew how to write patents back in the eighties.)
Jesse Clegg eventually received U.S. Patent No. 3,426,755. It appears to be his or her first and only patent. It should have been Gregory’s, but I should count my blessings. Even though Gregory didn’t receive the patent for a medicated pacifier, thank goodness he invented it a decade earlier, or who knows what would have become of Baby Paige.
In the mid-1990s, a company by the name of Baby Me Products licensed U.S. Patent No. 3,426,755 from Jesse Clegg. Best I can tell from the prior art, the Clegg device triggered an explosion in the pacifier field. Inventors from around the world began proposing different ways of dispensing medication to infants, or as one inventor from Montevideo, Uruguay, in December 1995 described the potential consumer base: “small children still of sucking age.”
My research takes m
e until dawn. I review all previous patents with one eye closed, terrified that someone, somewhere, at some point in history beat us to the punch, but alas the world has yet to see a pacifier like the one I have in mind.
By noon, our PMP is on file with the Patent Office. It takes three sheets of Euraka Productions letterhead to write out our story in longhand. Then I print “Personal & Confidential” across the front of the envelope, drop the pacifier proposal in the mail, and pray.
Twenty years ago, Baby Me Products took a chance on a first-time inventor. Maybe they’ll do it again.
CHAPTER 30
Running, Out of Ideas
LARA hasn’t shown up at the pharmacy since the Lemon Lolly incident and I give Belinda the day off. Flipping the sign on the front door, I make an executive decision: it’s the Fourth of July, Day’s Pharmacy is closed.
Sid never should have had that coronary, and I intend to prove it. Yes, he’s old as dirt and blind as a bat, but he’s also heavily medicated and in decent physical form. His cholesterol should be low, his heartburn virtually nonexistent.
There were dozens of prescriptions on Sid and Cookie’s kitchen countertop, going back as far as fifteen years. I use the quiet time in the pharmacy to review all the drugs Sid was taking, to understand how they interact, and to arrive on an explanation as to why he ended up the way he did—flat on his back.
Sid’s ticker: According to Janus’s comprehensive computer database, Sid’s anticholesterol and heartburn meds, taken together, pose all sorts of risks. But of the dozen possible side effects, “heart attack” isn’t one of them.
Sid’s tush: Sid takes special medication for an enlarged prostate, but Janus isn’t aware of any “clinically significant adverse effects.”
Sid’s noggin: Sinus infections. All the nasal sprays come back clean. Glaucoma. I found five different eyedroppers in Sid’s kitchen. Nothing troublesome jumps out at me, except for an expired vial of Metalol. Apparently, a common side effect of Metalol is a “darkening of the neighboring skin.” This would explain Sid’s raccoon eyes.
