by Abigail Keam
“And this is a map of their place if one went down the river. Look – Jamie even marked his route with a marker. I think we better take this.”
“What do you think, Boss Lady?”
“The same as you, Jake. I think there is a link between the poster, the magazines and the dope. Possibly the person who gave Jamie the Farrah Fawcett poster is the same person who supplied the raunchy magazines and possibly the condoms. You are right, Jake, about those magazines. They are too nasty for a 15-year-old boy unless he’s bent, and no way would he be allowed to purchase them. Besides they are very old magazines, the same vintage as the Fawcett poster. Since he hid the article behind the Fawcett poster, it indicates to me that Jamie wanted to keep his thoughts about the Golden Sun secret from his mother as well as the porn. It’s only a theory but at least it’s a start. I’m going to ask Sarah about the adult men in Jamie’s life. I know that a woman would never have given him that trash.”
“Maybe he found this stuff?”
“Where? No other houses are around so he wasn’t trash snooping. Besides, the magazines look almost new and they are the same age as the Farrah Fawcett poster. They’ve been carefully treated, as if preserved by a collector. I think they are from the same person.”
With that, we heard the door open. Jake quickly threw the pillowcase out the window. A few seconds later, Sarah strode into the room.
“Did you find anything?” she asked.
“Found this behind the Fawcett poster,” I said, showing her the newspaper article and the map.
“Oh dear,” Sarah replied, looking at the article.
“Mind if I take this with me?”
“No, be my guest.”
Struggling to rise from my chair, I said, “We’ll be going now. Oh, by the way, Sarah, who were the adult men in Jamie’s life . . . someone like an uncle or a mentor?”
“Well, there’s Irene’s husband. He and Jamie go fishing all the time . . . or did.” She paused, staring at Jamie’s things in haunted disbelief. I patted her arm in sympathy, causing her to regain her composure. “He and Irene were always good to my children, especially after my husband passed away.” She pondered for a moment. “Then there was our youth minister from church in Richmond, Ison Taggert. Jamie really liked him.”
“Who gave Jamie the Farrah Fawcett poster?”
Sarah smiled at the poster. “Ison Taggert. He was going to throw it out, but Jamie asked for it. Looks pretty innocent now, doesn’t it.”
“She certainly is hot,” commented Jake.
Sarah and I turned to glare at him. Jake, seeing our disapproval, said he would wait for me outside. He hurried out of the room.
“One last thing, Sarah. Was Jamie sexually active?”
Sarah paled. “Of course not. He was only 15. Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to get a complete picture.”
“Well, you get that picture out of your head. Jamie was a good boy. Never a moment’s trouble to me. I mean, I purposely didn’t have cable or let him have unlimited access to the computer just so I could keep his mind clean. He was never allowed to see movies with explicit sex or violence. I raised a wholesome boy.”
I didn’t want to get into a fight with Sarah about raging teenage hormones, so I made a quick retreat after thanking her. I didn’t want her to see that I was irritated. I hated it when people asked for favors and then got annoyed with me for being thorough. Besides I wasn’t feeling well. My leg was beginning to ache. Still – I didn’t realize what was to come later that night.
*
I filed away the sex magazines and other items in a cardboard box. Lowering my head to my desk, I felt faint and slightly nauseous. My leg was throbbing and itching while the rest of my left side ached. Even my gums were pulsating. I called for Jake. No response. He might be exercising in the pool, for it was his regime to swim 30 laps every day. Usually he had me do my therapy at the same time, but today I just begged off. I was too tired after the trip to the winery. It was too much too soon.
Limping into his room, I called his name. Not there. Opening the cabinet where he kept my medication, I searched for a pain patch or pills. Not finding one, I began to rummage through the various bottles until I became near hysterical. Where was all my pain medication?
“What are you doing?”
I turned around to see Jake lounging against the patio door drying off with a towel. His torso was very muscular and sinewy. Like most Native Americans, he had little body hair.
“I’m looking for my pain medication, but I can’t find it.” I turned back to the cabinet and continued to rummage.
“You’re not due another patch until tomorrow morning, Boss Lady.”
“I know,” I snapped, “but I need one now. The one I’ve got is not doing anything.”
“That’s because you over-exerted yourself today and then wouldn’t do your therapy to stretch your muscles. It was bound to bunch them up and now you hurt.”
“Damn it to hell!” I said, raising my voice, “I don’t give a crap why I hurt. I just do. I need something and I need it now. This throbbing on my side is getting unbearable. I want my pain medication ASAP!”
“No.”
“What do you mean . . . no?” I gasped.
“No as in no. We had a talk in Key West when we started to cut down on the medication. I told you then that you were going to have bad days, but you were going to have to tough it out unless you wanted to be addicted to this stuff the rest of your life.”
“I’m not addicted! How dare you?”
“Yes, you are and you will stay that way until we can safely reduce your dependence on pain medication. Until then you are officially part of the Kentucky drug culture.”
“But I’m in pain.”
“I have no doubt that there is some residual pain, but it’s bearable.”
“How do you know it is bearable? And why should I have to bear it? Why should anyone have to be in any kind of pain if there is medication to eradicate it?”
“Because you’ll be a slave to the medication otherwise.”
“Bull. The insurance companies don’t want to pay for it, so they make this ridiculous policy that the insurees should tolerate a standard level of pain. I think that is crap and to make people needlessly suffer evil.”
“You don’t have any health insurance. If you stay like you are, you’ll be an addict. Case closed. Besides, how are you going to pay for it all the time? It’s expensive.”
“Are you for real, buddy?” I could feel the blood run to my face and flung my words out with brutal carelessness. “I fell forty feet off that fracking cliff and was only saved by slamming into a few trees on the way down. My body broke basically into two parts. I had to learn how to walk again and currently hobble to and fro with a limp and that’s called progress. I couldn’t speak for months because my mouth was wired from the inside – the inside . . . and then my teeth had be pulled out in order to fix the rest of my pie hole. I have to wear this ridiculous hearing aid or learn sign language like Helen Keller. I pee on myself every time I burp. Now I have to endure being in pain because some penny-pincher bureaucrat in a tiny cubicle, who bangs the receptionist in the supply room, but really gets his rocks off by telling people like me that the company has to make a profit, so for the stockholders’ good, I have to live with pain.” Trembling with indignation, I gave a harsh derisive snort.
“Now I’ve been a good soldier. I have done everything asked of me. I’ve taken everything in stride. I know sometimes my manners are bad. I grieve over them on long winter nights, but for the most part, I did everything according to the medical scripture, endured every humiliating procedure and fought back the odds every day. I think even you would say that my recovery is near miraculous. So, is it too much to ask for a fresh pain patch or a shot when pain is the one thing I will not, should not, and cannot endure?” Tears streamed down my face. “Damn you! I WANT MY PAIN MEDICATION!”
“What’s going on here?” Matt asked in a
n uncertain tone. He entered the doorway, his patrician face lined with concern. “I could hear you both from outside.”
Jake threw a glance at me. “I think you interrupted a hissy fit.”
It was the first time I had seen Matt in six months. We talked several times on the phone each day but I had kept him away, telling him it was more important to stay at the Butterfly and manage the farm for me. The truth was I didn’t want him to witness my humiliating struggle to recover.
I recoiled as though Jake had slapped me. “A hissy fit? You refer to my suffering as a hissy fit, you condescending turd. If I were a man, you wouldn’t dare treat me in this manner. Men always get more pain medication than women. Shame on you. Yes, shame on you, Jake Dosh.”
Embarrassed that Matt was seeing me beg for drugs, I rushed to my bedroom locking the door behind me. The rage I felt was pushed away in the desperate search for my private stash of ill-gotten pain pills that my daughter had told me she had stashed when inspecting the house last month. “Where did she put them?” I asked myself, tapping my forehead. My memory was not what it use to be. Ahh. In my closet floor safe. Dragging a chair over, I sat and leaned down trying to reach the floor dial. With hands trembling, I rotated the safe dial. After many failed tries, I finally got the sequence right and yanked open the safe door. Ensconced were small bags of potent painkillers and another one of weed. All illegal little goodies that my daughter had procured in case of a rainy day. Well, it was pouring. Each bottle and bag had written instructions but I was frantic, searching for something that would dull my horrible pain.
Ignoring Baby’s scratching at the door, I happily swallowed a pill dry. Stumbling to my bed, I let my Egyptian cotton sheets enfold my aching body as I lit a pre-rolled joint and inhaled the gentle smoke, calming my boiling emotions and swirling mind. Taking only a couple of hits, I put the joint out. It was all I needed. Until my accident, I hadn’t ever tried marijuana, but it helped with the nausea.
Rolling on my back, I thought about what Jake had said, but I wasn’t sorry about my outburst. I wasn’t sorry about my needing drugs. If high-powered painkillers were what it took for me to get through the day – so be it. After all, even Sherlock needed his seven-percent solution.
Folding my hurting limbs into the fetal position, I rocked myself, waiting for the pill to take effect until I heard a whimper and felt weight press on the mattress. It didn’t occur to me how Baby got into the room as I reached over and patted Baby’s massive head. “Oh, Baby. Am I ever going to be well again? Is this the best it’s going to get from now on,” I whispered to the concerned mastiff.
Baby, with his large rough tongue, licked my arms as I rubbed his ears. When I stopped, he snorted in my face and circled three times before lying down in his bed. Listening to his contended breathing, I fell asleep. I dreamt that several honeybees flew into the room and crawled on my arm. I know their touch. One stung me. I must have rolled on her in my sleep. Or maybe she sacrificed herself for me so the cocktail of complex proteins in her venom would help ease my aching joints. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Zzzz.
7
Awakening to the pressure of someone scooting next to me in bed and then loudly crunching on cereal, I reached behind me and felt worn jeans covering skinny legs. “Morning, Franklin,” I rasped. My tongue was thick with a sticky film.
“Good morning, Miss Drama.” Crunch. Crunch.
“Franklin, how did you get in my room? Didn’t I lock the door?”
“Not very effective if you leave the door to the patio open.”
“I guess that would explain a cat sitting on my face,” I replied, reaching up to unwrap a cat from around my head. She purred at my touch.
“Ahh, don’t. She looks so comfy. There’s also another one curled up with Baby. You know, Sleeping Beauty you’re not. Besides a cat sitting on your head, your mouth was open so I guess the earsplitting snoring could escape. The sound was vibrating off the walls.”
“Well, you’re no Prince Philip to wake up to,” I replied, sitting up and throwing the cat to the floor. “Are there any other critters I need to be aware of?”
The cat stretched and jumped into a Hans Wegner Papa Bear chair. She was one of the barn cats who apparently had fled her rustic surroundings for a more luxurious lifestyle and had brought her boyfriend along. Rubbing my neck, I tried to get my bearings as I had been sleeping upside down on the bed.
“Haven’t looked yet.” Crunch. Crunch. Slurp.
“Is that a glass of milk?”
“Yep.”
“Can I have a sip?”
“Why not. You paid for it.” Franklin handed me a tall glass of milk, which I greedily drank.
“I guess you were sent in to determine if I was still in a horrible mood.”
“Matt called me yesterday very upset.”
“Did he tell you I acted like a crazy person?”
“He said he wanted that glorious gray matter of yours sharp today. Very important, he said, so he sent me to get you ready.” Franklin spooned in more cereal before he spoke. “Look, Josiah, there’s no judgment here. Just concern about what is the best thing to do. We both feel that you saved our lives. I mean, you took that freak down. You took the fall, literally. And we are here to help – however long it takes, partly because we feel we owe it to you and partly ’cause we want to. We are both fond of you.”
“Fond of me?”
“Okay, Matt loves you and I am very . . . fond of you . . . and frankly, life wouldn’t sparkle as much without you. I want you to get very well.”
“What’s behind the kind words? I sense an unspoken agenda.”
“Well, Miss Suspicious, if the truth must be told. Matt will not move forward emotionally or physically until things are settled with you, and by that, I mean you can function independently and the farm is shipshape. I can understand his feelings but frankly, my dear, I am a bit tired of it all. I want a life with Matt, but you are a buttinsky. As long as you are needy, Matt will be accommodating.”
“Gee, Franklin. You make me feel all warm and cozy inside.” I was very hurt by Franklin’s words.
“Just letting you know where we stand. Personally if you need drugs and dope to make you feel like a human being, I’ll make sure you have drawers full of that stuff. Just let Matt go.”
I tried not to show that Franklin was upsetting me. People were starting to make demands of me that I was not able to reciprocate yet. I was still a broken piece of china.
“Last night was the first time I had seen Matt in months. If you and Matt are having problems, I don’t think it has anything to do with me,” I said.
“Josiah, we never go anywhere. We never do anything except work on this stinking, rundown farm.”
“Doesn’t look rundown anymore.”
“Yeah, thanks to Matt and me. Look at my hands. They are simply ruined.”
“Franklin, when three people have had traumatic experiences like we did only a short time ago . . . it takes time to recover both physically and emotionally. Maybe you are rushing the healing process. Perhaps Matt is suffering from post-traumatic stress?”
“Let’s not be overly dramatic. Just encourage Matt to get on with his own life. Okay?” Franklin pulled playfully at one of my toes. I winced.
“I will feel him out, but I can’t promise anything. I just got home. I haven’t even visited my beeyard yet.”
“Well, Matt and Shaneika will be here at 3 p.m. Apparently they want to talk with you about your lawsuit against the city. Matt wants you to have a clear mind, so take it easy on the pain killers today.”
“I know this is hard for you to understand, but I am doing the best I can. A fifty-year-old asthmatic body doesn’t heal as fast as a thirty-year-old one, but I’ll think about what you said. Does everyone know about my private stash?”
“I put everything back – love the hidden safe by the way – and told them you would be ready to do your therapy plus the meeting today.”
“You’re a good man, sister.�
�
“Ahh, movie patter. You’ve been reading about the black bird lately.”
“The Maltese Falcon was playing late last night. I got up at two and watched part of it.”
Franklin did his Humphrey Bogart impersonation. “Listen. When a man’s partner is killed, he’s supposed to do something about it. It doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you’re supposed to do something about it.”
I clapped my hands. “Can you do Sydney Greenstreet as the Fat Man?”
“No, but I can do a hell of a Peter Lorre. Did you know what Peter Lorre said to Vincent Price at Bela Lugosi’s funeral?”
“Do you think we ought to drive a stake through his heart just in case?” I replied.
Franklin’s face fell. “You always steal my thunder.”
“Ask me something hard. Oh Franklin, don’t be so childish. You seem to be angry that I actually lived through that night. Look at it this way. You are younger, healthier and stronger than I. You’ll be living long after I’m dead. Now, doesn’t that make you feel better?”
“Oddly, it does.”
“Well, good. Now I feel like crap.” Looking down I was a wrinkled and stained mess. “I guess I need to apologize to Jake.”
“What you need to do is do your therapy, get cleaned up, then have breakfast, which I will make for you. Look pretty for once.” Franklin analyzed me. “Yes, a man might take your mind off your troubles,” he mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, just thinking.”
“Franklin, how about a quid pro quo? I will talk with Matt but . . .”
“Whaddja need?”
“Can you get on your computer and find out about the Silver Creek Vineyard and the Dunne family?”
“Like what?”
“Anything you can find out – bank records, lawsuits, just anything about Jamie Dunne’s death. Pleeeease!”
“You got it.” Franklin gave me a goofy smile. “Like old times. I just hope this doesn’t end like our last investigation together.”
