by Dan Dillard
*****
Evie is convincing. Maybe it’s her enthusiasm. The plan is to sneak out the front doors (the center of the E) while Lucy is distracted and walk to the travel agency. Not much of a plan, but we can work with it. If you plan too many dance moves, us old folks get lost forgetting the steps. I figure while I’m there I can call a cab and book the first flight out of this hell. At least it won’t be a wasted trip.
I’ll have one last adventure with the Queen of De Senile, entertaining as she may be, and then camp out on a beach somewhere and sip tequila while Bill scrambles around looking for me. Worst case I’ll end up back here after some charming under-their-breath talk between the Plane and Simple folks and Doc Tits.
I’m sure inmates have lost their happy thoughts and wandered next door on occasion. They probably have a protocol for it behind the desk on a clipboard. They call it Operation Geezer Gone or some shit. One of the orderlies might wrestle me to the ground. Once I’m detained, they’ll phone Bill and decide what to do with me. That’s fine; I’ll get another chance to tell him what a disappointment he is. Maybe he’ll bring his fat-ass wife with him. I have several words stewing for her as well.
6:05pm Wednesday
I’m all sweaty with anticipation when I hear her.
“You ready?”
Evie stands at my door with a hat on, dressed like she’s going to church.
“Sure. Let me ask you a question, Evie. How’s Andy gonna know what to do? Do you speak Greek?”
“Don’t you worry none ‘bout Andy. He sharp.”
She winks and waves her hand at me to follow. We walk to the front and I see Andy sitting right next to the reception desk. Lucy is busy ignoring him. She’s been at work since before nine this morning and I can’t blame her for not being chatty.
Evie leads me in through the side door of the parlor. She pulls me over by the main door which sits just to the right of the entrance and halts me with a hand signal and pleading eyes.
CRASH!
“Oh my! Mr. Kostopoulos! Andy, are you ok?”
That’s Lucy’s voice. I don’t know what just happened, but Evie is two steps ahead of me and I follow without looking back. The entrance doors are automatic and slide open quietly enough that no one else notices. I wonder how we’ll get back in since visiting hours are over at 7:30pm and the front doors lock. Of course, I’m certain they would open the doors for some resident inmates who happened to be on the wrong side of the glass after hours. I think they will. I hope Evie has that all worked out.
Evie walks to the edge of the property and stops.
“What the hell did Andy do?” I ask, scrambling to catch up with her, but keeping one eye on the front door to Rolling Meadows.
“He fell out his wheelchair,” she responds as if it’s no big deal.
“What?” is all I can manage.
“He don’t even need that chair. He just lazy. I see him walking round his room all the time. Don’t fuss none ‘bout him, he fine.”
Her jaw is set and she pulls me in the direction of the Plane and Simple Travel Agency. I feel like an outdated outlaw. We trot across the lawn and into the parking lot next door where we take a minute to breathe knowing no one is giving chase. After a moment, Evie saunters right up to the front door.
“You’re just going in like a customer?”
“Don’t know no other way t’ go? You see another door?”
She has a point. There’s one car in the back. Might be a rear entrance, but it would be no less conspicuous than the front door. There can’t be more than one person working in there anyway.
I watch Evie smooth out her dress and fix her hat in the reflection of the front glass. She looks at me with one last deep breath and we pull the door open. A bell rings, notifying the employees they have a customer, and as we walk in a voice greets us.
“Hello, Evie,” it says.
A tall nondescript gentleman extends a hand to her and she smiles as she takes it. That’s when it dawns on me her story was absolutely true. That’s why she’s wearing church clothes. That’s how he knows her name.
“Edgar!” he says, “I need your assistance.”
“Right there, dad,” a disinterested voice answers from the back room.
Edgar enters, this time without the smock, but still with the oily hair, black fingernails and the same skull t-shirt. He must have a dozen of them. My spine locks. Evie looks at me and speaks.
“Thanks for the help, Jimmy-boy. You all right.”
Edgar puts his hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. His stare is cold … emotionless.
“It’s not your time, Mr. Aldridge. That will come soon enough.”
He shoves me out the front door and tumbles the lock behind me. I stare at the building for a moment and then gather my senses. Suddenly, neither Bill nor his prude wife and her huge glutes matter to me. I need to get back to help the new folks. I need to show ‘em those ropes, as Evie said. I need to check on Andy.
As I walk back toward Rolling Meadows—home for now, I see the ambulance pull away from the back of ‘Rolling Meadows’. I know it’s Evie inside. At least I know that Evie’s body is inside.
Her soul just took the ferry.
..ooOOoo..
PIG MAN
My wife dreams hard. Sometimes she wakes us both when those dreams come and sometimes those dreams are terrifying. This is based on one.
“MOMMY, WHO IS the pig man?”
Holy shit, she scared the crap out of me. Is it even morning? Does the clock say six?
Blink. Blink.
Where is that worthless husband of mine? Oh yeah, a business trip. It never fails. Whenever I’m sleeping soundly, something wakes me up. When he sleeps, we tiptoe. He’s in a hotel somewhere, no doubt snoozing soundly. Or he’s in one of those showers with the massage head, plenty of pressure and unlimited hot water.
It’s lucky for this kid she’s mine, and that she’s adorable, or I would’ve jumped up swinging. It’s also creepy to wake up and see a child standing there just staring at me in the dark. Now, what was it she said?
“What honey? Mommy was sleeping.”
“Who is the pig man?” She asks again.
Was there a pig-man on one of those TV shows and she’s just now getting around to her investigation. Who knows the mind of a six-year-old? Besides, mommy is the source of all information, right? Maybe she saw a commercial for a new BBQ joint. Pulled pork, strangely, sounds appetizing. I put on a false look of dramatic interest to match hers while still trying to blink the sleep out.
“I don’t know about any pig-man, was he in a book?” I ask.
“No.”
I wait, but that’s it, just no. I prod a bit more.
“Was he on TV?”
“No,” she said again.
This, apparently, was going to be a process.
“Where did you see him, baby?”
The turns sideways and points toward the doorway, which is standing open. It has always stood open since she was born, so I could hear her if she needed me.
“He was downstairs, right at the bottom where the window is. He just stands there and looks out.”
She says these words as if there’s nothing wrong with them. As if they don’t cause my chest to tighten and my body to break into a cold, terrified sweat. My heart swells in my chest and begins to pound.
“Wh-when did you see him?” I say, starting out of bed and wondering what was handy that I could use as a weapon.
“Last night.”
I stop, sitting on the edge of my bed in panties and a t-shirt and look at her. She isn’t alarmed, why should I be? Kids can sense when things are wrong, can’t they? It was last night. That’s slightly comforting. Just a dream, right? Cardiac arrest on hold. I looked at her again, hair mussed with a rat’s nest in the back, the sweet face of an angel, a lavender-colored nightie and her stuffed animal of choice, a floppy little guy with plastic bead eyes and a very cute expression on his face. The toy�
�s name is Piggy, and as usual, he is clutched in her hands. Piggy has been through the ringer, but has proven very tough.
“You were dreaming, honey. You probably just saw Piggy in your dream.”
“Piggy sure did look weird, and he had a suit on.”
This phrase is spoken with the matter-of-factness only a child of six can muster as she bounds out of the room. Ah, Sunday, and I’m up to get started at 6:20am. One crisis avoided, and onto the next one which should be coming along any minute.
It’s a great weekend for him to have a business trip. I almost had to beat a phantom pig-man to death with an alarm clock–in my period panties.
I walk to the top of the stairs prepared to have a fatal stroke. Thankfully only the morning sun gleams through the window to greet me. The dog, Ruffles, follows lazily from his bed (his bed being our bed) and I hate him a little. Then I concede that he is warm and snuggly at night, especially when hubby is out of town. The stupid dog never goes downstairs in the morning unless and until someone goes with him.
Maybe he’s seen the pig-man too? Maybe the damn dog has been afraid this whole time and not just lazy, but I doubt it.
I chuckle to myself and set out to make some coffee. There’s some cleaning to be done, and then some laziness and I’d like to get to it.
