Bingo You're Dead

by Lou Fletcher

  My watch read five o’clock. I was chilled to the bone when I got up to check the fire. It was almost out but I hoped there was enough heat left so I wouldn’t have to start from scratch. I’d have to remind Tippi again of how my Marine training saved her life.

  I went to the coatroom to retrieve my coat and boots for the trip out to the woodpile. My coat was still there but my boots were missing.

  Joe must have moved them, I thought. I went back to the lounge where I found Herb B. poking at the dead ashes in the grate.

  I ignored him and rolled the empty wood cart toward the door to fill it up for the long day ahead. No boots. I headed outside and cursed the storm, when the wet snow seeped into my loafers. I sank into a snowdrift above my knees.

  “Whatsa trouble, Hank?” Perry hugged the side of the building for shelter from the wind. He cupped his hands around a cigarette. “You oughtta have boots on,” he laughed. “Lucky for me, somebody left these by the door because there was a slight problem with my shoes.”

  I threw a large hickory log toward the cart I’d rolled next to Perry's feet. My aim fell short as the log went into the cart.

  “Whoa, big guy,” Perry said. “That's the foot that plays the drum. I’d hate to have to sue you for destroying my career.” He flicked his cigarette butt into the snow. “Nice morning,” he went on. “Wind hasn't let up a bit, in fact it seems even stronger.”

  My feet were freezing by the time I headed inside with the wood. People were waking up, and Violet had rounded up Hazel and Mary to rustle up some breakfast.

  Tippi came in after taking Frenchie for her morning outing. A bundled-up Marcy skipped beside her. Applebee rolled up and lifted the little terrier into his lap.

  “What's the news?” I asked.

  “We're still in the middle of this storm,” Applebee said. “The thing is huge. Goes all the way back to western Iowa and as far south as Oklahoma. We've got at least another twenty-four hours of this.”

  “Any news about Gus?” I asked.

  Applebee shook his head. “There's nobody moving out there.”

  We sat in silence until the door opened, blowing in snow, cold wind, and Perry. He pulled off my boots and wiggled his plump self onto the sofa next to Tippi. “Colder than a witch’s …”

  “Shut up, Perry,” Applebee cut him off. “Do something useful. Build a snowman or shovel the drive or …”

  A sudden commotion came from the front of the building. A door slammed and Violet let out a scream.

  “What the devil?” I ran to the foyer to find Gus supported on either side by Violet and Mary. Icicles hung from the brim of his hat and from his mustache. His coat and trousers were so coated with snow he looked like a ghostly version of one of Reba’s little gnomes. His lips were blue with cold, the only color on his entire body.

  “Oh my God.” I moved toward the trembling man. “Here, let me take him,” I said to the women. “Let’s get him in by the fire. Heat up some water,” I barked at Mary who was already headed toward the kitchen.

  “Put him here,” Applebee rolled in and pointed to his lap.

  I hoisted Gus onto Applebee’s thin legs then pushed them toward the lounge. By now everybody had come out to see what was going on.

  “Get out of the way,” Tippi yelled, making a path through the onlookers. “Let them through. Somebody throw more wood on the fire. Gather up all the blankets and move the long couch over in front of the fireplace.” She shouted orders as she ran interference.

  “You hold him up,” I instructed Perry. “I’ll get these wet clothes off him.”

  My fingers froze as I tried to unbutton Gus’s coat. Tippi pulled off his hat and dried his icy head with her scarf while I worked at removing his clothes. Mr. Wittekind rushed in with the Santa suit we use for the Christmas party, and between the four of us, we stripped him down, then suited him up as a skinny little Santa. We forced his stiff fingers into the costume’s white gloves and pulled the red cap down over his ears. I prayed we’d gotten him before frostbite had done irreparable damage.

  “Marcy, pick up Gus’s wet clothes and spread them over that chair next to the fire.” I felt like a Marine captain again, this time commanding a company straight out of a Disney cartoon.

  “Guess what I found, Uncle Hank.” Marcy held out her closed fist.

  “Not now, honey.” I patted her on the head. “Wittekind, bring me some rags or cloths soaked in water as hot as you can get it.” I uncovered Gus’s feet and inspected the skin. It was white but firm when I pressed down. “Tippi, gather up some pillows to prop up his feet to keep the swelling down. Somebody bring in the first aid kit. We’ll need sterile bandages—a lot of them.”

  I removed one of the gloves and then the other, repeating the same procedure I had used on his feet. I pulled the blanket away from his face and checked his ears and the tip of his nose for further evidence of frostbite. Miraculously, he seemed to have escaped the worst of it, suffering only a mild case—at least as far as I could tell. We applied hot cloths and wrapped his hands and feet in the bandages before covering up the semi-conscious man.

  “We should wake him up every hour and make sure he drinks something. Warm tea is best. He’s probably suffering from hypothermia. We don’t know how long he’s been outside. Hopefully he’s been in the car most of the time. Maybe he got stuck and was able to use the car heater to stay warm,” I said.

  “We’ll take turns sitting with him,” Tippi said.

  “I’ll take the first shift,” Mary said, pulling up a chair.

  Tippi, Applebee, and I left Mary with Violet hovering nearby to watch the sleeping man. I motioned toward the ceramics room and pushed a chair under the doorknob to ward off interruptions.

  “Where’s that cold air coming from?” Tippi wondered. “It feels like an arctic blast blowing through here.” She pulled the neck of her sweater over her mouth and nose.

  “The door to the kiln isn’t shut all the way,” Applebee said. He pushed on the handle and locked it as he spoke. “That’s better,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  I broke the silence. “At least Gus is alive.”

  A knock at the door roused us. “Thought you’d want to know,” came Violet’s voice through the closed door. “He’s awake.”

  We found him propped up on pillows, while Mary spooned hot liquid from a bowl into his mouth. He had begun to regain some color in his cheeks but not the ruddy look his Santa suit called for.

  Tippi knelt down beside him, her cheeks wet with tears of relief.

  “Oh, ‘mon cher ami’,” she said, burying her face in his shoulder. “You had us worried to death. We’re so glad to see you.”

  Gus’s blue eyes blinked beneath the white fur of the hat. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he got a word out, Mary spooned in more broth.

  “He needs liquids and rest,” Mary grumbled. “There will be plenty of time for talking later.” She spooned again.

  Applebee patted the blankets covering Gus’s feet. “You’re in excellent hands.“ He turned to me and spoke in a low voice. “I’ll contact Grange’s office and let them know Gus is back.”

  Turning back to Gus, I tried to sound upbeat. “Let Mary or Violet know if you need anything at all and we’ll get it.”

  Gus freed one hand from the swaddling. He wriggled his finger at me to come closer. I put my ear next to his lips.

  “Will somebody feed my reindeer?”

  TWENTY

  My mind raced as I put on my boots and reached for my coat before I headed outside for more firewood. I was feeling hopeful about Gus’s health but wished I could get him the real medical treatment he needed. I also allowed myself a bit of optimism about the storm, convinced that the snowflakes seemed smaller and lighter. I could almost make out the outline of the city administration buildings across the way. I wonder if I could make it over there to get help? The distance was at least the length of a football field, and with more than two feet of snow already on the ground and still
falling, I was more than a little apprehensive. I think I can, I thought, stealing a line from one of Noah’s storybooks.

  The door opened and Guenther stepped outside, suited up against the storm. He lit a cigarette before he spotted me.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Hank.” He took a long drag on the cigarette.

  “Helluva storm,” I offered lamely.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m going to try to make it over to the fire department.” I nodded at the buildings across the field fast disappearing behind a fresh blast of snow. “I was hoping to get medical help for Gus.”

  “Not lookin’ too good,” Guenther offered.

  New snow swirled in fierce gusts of air. I leaned against the door, staring into whiteness.

  “I need to get home,” Guenther said.

  “Yeah, I hear you,” I said, thinking again of Rachel and Noah and wondering if my house was still in one piece.

  “Worried ’bout my animals,” he said.

  I realized how little I knew about Guenther’s personal life. I knew he ran a farm stand where he sold tomatoes, peppers, and assorted produce from his garden during the summer. Then there were the evergreens he sold at Christmas, and the odd jobs he performed for people all over Goose Down. I didn’t know if he had a family, where he grew up, or even how old he was, other than he was a lot younger than any of us at the center, except for Herb B.

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. I’d been thinking more in human terms. “What have you got?”

  “Three dogs, a couple of cats, an old horse name a’ Sadie, four Black Angus calves, and two hogs,” he said proudly.

  “Wow, I’m impressed. I had no idea. I guess I thought your farming was all produce, like the strawberries and tomatoes you bring to the center, and of course the Christmas trees. I don’t put up a tree myself anymore, but my daughter and my grandson always look forward to coming out from Cincinnati and going to your place for their tree. Noah—he’s seven—thinks he’s old enough to do the cutting this year, but his mother’s not so sure.”

  “I can get a cut started for him then let him make the final one. I have a small saw with a dull blade I save for the kids. They get a kick out of it,” he said, smiling.

  “You have kids?”

  “Naw. The wife didn’t want ’em.” He looked down and kicked snow around then turned away and stomped around the corner of the building.

  I was standing there alone and embarrassed when Tippi stuck her head out the door.

  “We’re getting cold in here,” she said. “We need more wood for the fire.”

  The wind was blowing even harder now. I’d have to wait for another break in the weather before I could attempt to go for help.

  By the time I replenished the fire, everybody was up and buzzing around. Violet, Mary, and Hazel were busy making coffee and scrambled eggs, Applebee was back on the air, and Wittekind was playing a solitary game of darts. Marcy had cajoled a forlorn-looking Frenchie into playing dress-up with scraps of fabric from the Crafty Ladies’ assorted collection.

  With everyone peacefully occupied, I went outside through the kitchen to check on the small generator keeping most of the lights on and the refrigerator running. I made a mental note to bring up the need for a commercial-size generator at the next board of trustees meeting. Luckily we had plenty of wood to heat the lounge, and the gas stove and oven kept the kitchen warm.

  I finished my work and went back into the kitchen. I was warming my hands over one of the burners on the stove when Herb B. came in. His hair was as rumpled as his clothes, and he shoved me aside to reach the coffeepot. I guessed he was still angry over yesterday’s confrontation about Joe and Gus.

  “Not that you give a damn,” I said, “but Gus is back.” I could scarcely keep myself from punching him in his smug, little face. “You will answer for this,” I added before I turned my back on him.

  “You and your girlfriend think you’re so smart.” He stepped around to face me, blocking my exit. “Don’t underestimate me, Hank. I’m a survivor and I’ll do whatever it takes to get what I want. So threaten me if you like, but consider yourself forewarned, big guy.” He took his time pouring a cup of coffee before helping himself to a plateful of eggs and sauntering back to his office.

  “Hope he freezes to death in there,” I said to the women who had witnessed the exchange.

  “Oh, he won’t,” Hazel said. “Have you seen his setup? He has his own little generator to run the lights, an electric heater, a portable TV, and his computer. I think he even has a microwave and a small fridge—probably stocked with beer.” She grinned.

  “Now you mention it, I did see an espresso maker but I didn’t think much about it. I was more interested in checking on Joe.”

  “Bingo,” said Tippi, entering the kitchen.

  I groaned as she pulled me by the sleeve into the lounge, where Joe was helping Mr. Wittekind and Guenther set up card tables in front of the fireplace for the bingo game.

  “You can be the caller,” Mr. Wittekind said. “Tippi can be the checker.”

  Tippi shrugged, resigned.

  “I’ll shake down Herb B. for some money for prizes,” I said. “Be right back.”

  First I wanted to check in with Applebee for news on the storm. I found him in the conference room, headphones on and staring at the snow. It was now coming down so hard it looked like a sheet had been pulled across the window.

  I tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “What’s the news?”

  “According to the National Weather Service, we’ve got another five to six hours of the heavy stuff and then it will taper off before it moves out around midnight. We already have almost three feet on the ground. It’s a local record breaker.”

  “I guess we’ll be here for another night then. I better be off. Wittekind’s organizing a bingo game and I have to pry some money out of Herb B. I’ll pass the news about the storm on to the others.”

  Herb B. had the door to his office locked. I pounded harder than necessary, wishing it were on his rat face instead.

  He opened the door a crack and one eye peered out. “Whadda ya want? I’m busy.”

  “I need your petty cash. We’re having a bingo game. This storm’s sticking around so we’re here for another night.”

  I shoved on the door and managed to force it open. Herb B. was a slight-built man but he was in good shape. His other hobby, besides playing Robin Hood and fooling around with Angie, was long distance running. Most weekends, beginning in the spring and right on through fall, he runs the country roads in and around Goose Down, training for the Flying Pig Marathon held every year in Cincinnati. I figured he was probably extra cranky at being cooped up, especially without Angie to provide some diversion.

  “Cozy setup,” I said, glancing around. “All you need’s a little female companionship and…”

  “Take the damn money and leave me the hell alone.” He slammed the cashbox into my hands. “Now get out.” He tried to push me toward the door but I outweighed him by a good sixty pounds.

  “Careful there, Robin. Don’t hurt yourself.” I laughed over my shoulder on my way out.

  The bingo players were waiting for me. I handed the cashbox to Tippi and hurried to the front table.

  “Cover all,” I said, cranking the handle on the wire basket to mix up the balls.

  Wittekind called out, “Keep it clean, Hank. There’s a munchkin in the room.” Marcy was seated on his lap with her bingo cards spread out on the table. I knew right off it would be a long evening.

  The noise woke up Gus, who crawled out from under the covers while everyone was engaged in the game. He made his way to the table where I sat, while the game deteriorated with catcalls and hoots and comments that bordered on the risqué after each number. He adjusted the Santa hat and turned to face the group, speaking in a loud voice. “Ho, ho, ho. You’re being very naughty, boys and girls.”

  The players cracked up at the sight of him; the Santa suit hung
on his small frame like a king-size quilt on a kid-size hanger, the hat slipped over one ear and a silly grin creased his pale face.

  “You go, Gus,” one of the men shouted.

  “We’re just getting started,” Gert added.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I called the game until lunch, and then bribed Wittekind to take over. I figured he owed me since he’d been the main instigator of the one-liners after each call.

  “I need a break,” Applebee said as he rolled up. “My ears are ringing from wearing those headphones all morning.”

  “Yours are ringing? You should have been in that bingo game. Bunch of potty mouths,” I said. “I need a drink, I’m parched.” Just then, Tippi came up and steered Applebee toward the kitchen.

  I grabbed three sodas out of the refrigerator, snagged a plateful of sandwiches Violet had set out, and found some Oreos behind the cans of baked beans and Spam.

  “Ceramics room?” I asked the other two, motioning towards our customary hiding spot. The bingo game was going full tilt so no one noticed us in the hallway.

  When I opened the door, I jumped backwards and nearly fell into Applebee’s lap. “Whoa.”

  Perry Klump sat at the table, his head in his hands, and an empty glass in front of him. He raised his head as though the weight was almost more than his short neck could bear. Bloodshot eyes squinted at me and he slurred out a greeting, “Hey, buddy.”

  “Hey, Perry,” I answered. “What’s going on?” I looked at the glass. By this time Tippi had pushed Applebee into the room.

  “Just havin’ a drink.” He held up the glass. “A li’l nightcap. I’d offer ya some but I drank it all.” He hiccupped and his whole body slumped forward, his face hitting the table with a loud crack.

  “Great,” Tippi said. “Now what?”

  “Help me into that straight chair,” Applebee instructed. “Now, put Perry in my chair and wheel him into Herb B.’s office. It’s warm in there and he can sleep it off on the couch.”

  Tippi and I wrestled Perry’s dead weight into the wheelchair. It took both of us to push the oversize man down the hall. Again, I pounded on the director’s door. “Open up. Emergency here.”