Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden

by J. Lee Butts

  Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? But trust me, it’s not. In my nearly ninety years I’ve found that good works are likely to go unnoticed, unrewarded, and quickly fade into the fog of time and memory. Conversely, Lord help us, the bad ones come back to haunt us. Truth is, just ain’t no getting away from who we were and what we might have done—good, bad, or indifferent.

  And worst of all, a body just never knows when one of his ugliest, most carefully guarded of memories or secrets will rear its Hydra-like head. Usually takes place when a feller least expects it. As a general rule, mine typically come to me in the middle of the night, when one of the old gummers down the hall goes to screaming like a lunch whistle at a south Arkansas sawmill.

  I’ve been in this depot for prospective corpses several years now. Still can’t get a reasonable explanation from any of the staff as to exactly what causes such midnight terrors. Only way I can figure it is that those folks doing all the screaming are witness to the events of their pasts. Pasts that somehow come back to life. Truly does seem as how the ghosts of long ago and far away like to visit more often as we grow older.

  And for their own unfathomable reasons, occurs to me that visiting spirits usually tend to show their ugly faces between midnight and sunup. But not always. Take it from a man who’s studied the subject up close and personal, getting old is sometimes a damn sight more than a body can take—night or day.

  Couple a weeks ago me and Black Jack were napping out on the sunporch. Snapped out of a wildly pleasant daydream about my dear Elizabeth. Heard people yelling and hollering down the hall toward the dayroom. Before a body could spit, sounded like furniture getting turned over, busted up, and dragged around. Then, glass went to breaking. Women started crying and members of the staff went to running up and down the hall.

  Pushed the cat out of my lap and hobbled down that direction. Met one of the orderlies, big ole kid named Horace Bow-man. He came huffing past me with blood streaming down the side of his face like somebody had hit him in the head with an ax. Next thing I knew, pair of the more brutish orderlies, kind of guys who looked like they lived under the front porch and you could roller skate on them, flew past me and darted through the dayroom door.

  Edged up to the entry and peeked inside. Them big ole thuggish-looking boys had Thurmond Gaston pinned up in a corner, far side of the wrecked room. Thurmond waved a butcher knife the size of a meat cleaver back and forth at them, like he knew how to use it. In my personal opinion, there’s just nothing more dangerous than a man determined to kill you and who has a knife handy.

  One of the thugs, guy sporting a scar down his left cheek from hairline to chin, yelled, “Gimme the goddamned knife, old bastard.”

  Wild-eyed and crazy-looking, Thurmond grinned like a thing insane. “Come git it, you son of a bitch. Carve you up like a Sunday chicken.”

  Given the rarity and oddity of such events here at Rolling Hills, got to admit, I was shocked right down to the soles of my slippers. Shocked and amazed. Hadn’t expected anything like a knife fight when I checked in. Body just doesn’t anticipate such an event in an old folks home, now, would you?

  Argument between Thurmond and Scarface went on for a good five minutes and wasn’t going anywhere. Strolled over to the action about the time Scarface’s partner, feller named Buddy Johnson, got froggy. He took a jump Thurmond’s direction. Came away with one hand sliced open all the way to the bone. Stupid jackass went running out of the dayroom, slinging blood all over hell and yonder. Howled like a kicked dog till I couldn’t hear him anymore.

  Purple-faced and bug-eyed, Scarface spotted me and said, “Get the hell outta here, Tilden. Got a dangerous situation here, old man. You could get badly hurt.”

  Guess I reverted back to my lawdog ways. Made a kind of peacemaking, shushing motion at Thurmond. Real friendly-like, I said, “It’s okay, Thurm.” Then I glanced over at Scarface. “Now, listen carefully, you ugly son of a bitch. Want you to back the hell out of here. Leave me and Thurmond alone for a few minutes. I’ll find out what the problem is and take care of him.”

  “Don’t make me kick your ass, too,” Scarface growled.

  “Do what I said, or trust me, you’ll regret it.” Tone of my voice must’ve finally got through to the bullyboy. Knew he was only trying to do his job, but hell, he was doing it badly.

  Watched as the ugly jerk backed his way toward a door jammed full of goggle-eyed nurses and other staff. Turned to Thurmond. Said, “What’s the problem, Thurm?”

  Still held that big ole blade out like he meant business. “Problem?”

  “Yeah, what’s the problem?”

  Man went to shaking all over, like he suffered from the final throes of a horrible tropical disease. “Problem? Yes, the problem. Man I know for dead won’t leave me alone.”

  Well, shit. Knew exactly what he meant. Ghost of Carlton J. Cecil stopped by my room damn nigh every other night. Tried to keep my voice calm, even, friendly. “Dead feller, huh?”

  Could see the confusion in his eyes. “Yeah. Keeps showing up. Here, the sunporch, cafeteria. Won’t give me any peace. Can’t even eat my tapioca ’thout the son of a bitch creepin’ up on me. Just keeps coming back. Told him, last night, I’d kill ’im again if he bothered me one more time.” Some of the spunk appeared to drain out of Thurmond once he’d got it off his chest.

  “That’s why you’ve got the knife?”

  “Yeah. Snuck it outta the kitchen. And just be damned, the maggot-riddled son of a bitch showed up again. Just wouldn’t listen. Come up on me whilst I was readin’ the newspaper. Hopped outta my seat and went to cuttin’ on ’im. Know what he did?”

  “No, Thurm. What’d he do?”

  “Laughed at me. Said he’d see me in Hell soon.”

  “You know the man?”

  “The ghost?”

  “Yeah, the ghost.”

  “Uh-huh. No. Not sure. Maybe. Don’t matter. Think I kilt him off again anyway. Or maybe not. Get ’im next time though.”

  About then I heard a police siren outside. Said, “Look, Thurm, why don’t you give me the knife. I’ll stay here with you, and we’ll run the dead son of a bitch off together, if he comes back. Okay?”

  Commotion at the door. Knew the law had arrived. Anxious cops would soon fill the room up. If pistols came out, figured anything could happen. Poor old brain-addled Thurm just might get shot to pieces.

  “The knife, Thurm. Give me the knife. I’ll stay with you.”

  Of a sudden, the man looked like a cheap umbrella in a rainstorm. He kind of collapsed into the corner. Dropped that big ole blade on the floor at my feet. I grabbed it up and pitched it across the room. Second or so later, red-faced trio of boys in blue stormed up behind me. They snatched Thurm up like a kid’s raggedy doll. Man didn’t say a word when they dragged him away. Just kind of whimpered.

  Heddy McDonald came running up. Beautiful gal took my arm, escorted me into the hall, and pointed me back toward the dayroom. “I’m so glad you took a hand in the matter. Would have been awful if Mr. Gaston had been hurt or killed.”

  “Yes. Yes, it would’ve.”

  “Good thing I got here when I did,” she added. “Was able to make those policemen understand which of you they’d been called to corral.”

  “Mighty thoughtful, darlin’. Sure wouldn’t want to spend the night in the hoosegow for slicing and dicing some of Rolling Hills’ nurses.”

  “Oh, Mr. Gaston won’t spend any time in jail. He’s being ushered downstairs to the med room in the basement. Have a call in to Baptist Hospital for Dr. F. Scott Bryles to rush over and medicate him a bit. After a day or two of rest, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Thank God none of our other patients were i njured.”

  Strolled up to the sunporch door. Turned to Heddy and said, “Sounded to me like Thurm might’ve pulled something like this before.”

  A pained look of deep sadness etched its way around the girl’s beautiful eyes. She squeezed my hand. “Of course, you’re right. This wasn’t Mr.
Gaston’s first bout of oddly aggressive behavior. Poor man suffers from advanced hardening of the arteries, Hayden. Disease is characterized by loss of memory, confusion, lack of good judgment, and social grace. Anxiety, depression, and anger. Sad state of affairs. Very sad. Horrible end to a good man’s life.”

  “Maybe what happened didn’t have anything to do with hardening of the arteries. Maybe he really did see a ghost, or maybe his past finally just caught up with him.”

  Heddy smiled. Let out a muted chuckle. “Ghost, or not. Past, or whatever. Few days of sedation should cure the problem.”

  “Well, might be near the end, but he’s not gone yet. Maybe he’ll get better.”

  Now while I said it, didn’t for a second believe a single syllable. Hid out on the sunporch couple of nights later. Sneaking a smoke and a sip of rye. Must’ve been around one thirty or two o’clock in the morning. Cat perked up in my lap. Then, those body-collecting cockroaches, with the squeaky white shoes, came scurrying down the hall pushing a wobble-wheeled gurney.

  They crept into ole Thurm’s room like a crew of masked thieves. Few minutes later, whizzed back past my hidey-hole with him all wrapped up in a sheet. Man’s bloodless face was pasty white. Lips were black. Dead-eyed stare. Never saw him again.

  You ask me, didn’t have nothing to do with arteries hardening, or anything medical at all. Nope, a ghost from the man’s past got him. Sure as pissants can’t pull boxcars.

  2

  “. . . DIED OF THE CONSUMPTION . . .”

  MIGHT AS WELL get comfortable, folks. Gonna tell you a little story designed to further illustrate an old man’s unsupported nightly ramblings about life and the past. See, six or eight months ago the wardens here at Rolling Hills took to dragging a hundred-year-old projector into the dayroom on Wednesday nights and running picture shows.

  Bullet-headed, muscle-bound orderly name of Elton Slater works that clattering piece of machinery. Elton’s about half as smart as a bag of stink bugs, but it appears he’s the only guy on staff with brains enough to keep the contraption spinning all its squawking wheels and them pulleys what make that kaflutta-kaflutta-kaflutta sound. Borders nigh on to impossible for me to understand, because the man’s just about half smart enough to put dents in a steel marble with a rubber hammer.

  Anyway, Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank has all the working nurses, candy stripers, and a troop of other kindhearted volunteers wheel us inmates out of our individual cells, about seven o’clock on “movie” night. Before the lights go out and the film cranks up, they serve us cold drinks, candy bars, and popped corn.

  Now it’s damned difficult to eat popped corn when you’re almost ninety and ain’t exactly got all of your teeth. But, Lord, I do love the stuff, especially if it’s drowning in an ocean of hot, melted butter and salty goodness. So, in spite of the fact that I’ve retained about enough of my choppers to fool most folks, I take a paper bag of that wonderful stuff and just spend the evening sucking on it, one kernel at a time.

  Will confess here that I never had the opportunity to indulge in such mindless entertainment, back when I still carried a pistol on each hip, another at my back, a Winchester model 1876 hunting rifle, and a sawed-off shotgun when things got real serious. Back in them blood-spattered days, I chased killers, thieves, bootleggers, and whores all over the Indian Nations for Judge Isaac C. Parker—man known far and wide for quick trials and quicker hangings. ’Course I guess to be completely accurate, the motion picture business, as mass entertainment, didn’t get going real good till after I’d left the U.S. Marshals Service and was toting a badge as a city law bringer down in Sunset, Texas, back in the 1920s.

  And you know, in spite of my best guesswork and feelings on the subject beforehand, I have to admit it’s got to where I kind of enjoy these weekly diversions. Seems as how sitting in the dark, sucking on popped corn and watching one of those flicker shows, has the power to take my near century-old, cankered mind off the fact that I had to give up so much of my personal freedom just to live in this goddamned place.

  Best part of the whole Wednesday-night-picture-show experience and all was when I met up with Martha Frances Harrison. Seems the pair of us had committed ourselves to Rolling Hills at about the same time. Pretty sure we just kind of drifted together because neither of us knew anyone else living here back then.

  Truth is, ain’t many men as reside in one of these homes for the terminally aged to begin with. Reason’s simple enough, really. See, on average, the women outlive us gummers, geezers, and old coots by decades. Seems us guys tend to croak faster than Satan can open Hell’s front gates and invite us to come on in.

  As a consequence of our collective rapid departure from this life, any of us ole farts sporting half a functioning brain, and can walk and chew gum at the same time, can have his choice of female companionship in one of these waiting rooms for the hereafter. And trust me when I tell you that, even though such a situation sounds good on the surface, this particular proposition can be a damned iffy sucker, given how crazy some women can get as the years chip away at them. Good many females get crazier than Thurmond Gaston ever thought about being.

  Much to my delight, Martha Frances has proven a god-send. She’s perky, good-looking as hell, and sports a hazel-eyed gaze that has the power to make a man want to slap his grandma—if the old gal was still alive, that is. She still has her own hair, or most of it, and is about as well-built as any seventy-year-old woman I’ve ever seen. Gal’s stacked up like a brick Montgomery Ward reading room.

  Sitting there by myself, as usual, when Martha Frances strolled up one night. Primly took the seat next to mine. Dipped a dainty, scarlet-nailed, diamond-laden bunch of fingers into the paper bag of popped corn sitting in my lap. For a second there, felt like a lightning bolt shot up my britches leg, then burned a hole the size of a barrel lid through the seat of my cotton drawers. Rest of the night, I had this buzzing sensation in my ears, kind of like being shot at by a whole gang of Indian Nation brigands out to kill me deader than Hell in a Baptist preacher’s front parlor.

  Then, she rubbed a shoulder against mine, turned, and whispered into my ear. Could feel the heat and warmth of her when she said, “Mind if I sit with you, good-looking?”

  Now, I tried my level best to sound suave, sophisticated, and debonair, when I said, “Why, no, darlin’. Right pleased to have the company.” Hell, I might be older than Methuselah’s great-grandpappy, but my mama didn’t raise any blithering idiots.

  Lightning struck again when Martha Frances got tired of the popped corn and kind of leisurely slid her hand up my leg. Sweet hoobie joobus. Pretty sure if I had reached out and touched ole Elton’s kafluttering movie machine, I’d of blown out every circuit breaker in the building.

  After the show she slipped into my room—a direct violation of one of Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank’s most stringent rules. Spent the night together. Of course, given how old we both are, not much of anything happened. But it felt right nice to have someone share my bed again, for a change.

  Truth is, about the only thing we did was lay there in the dark and talk. Talked almost all night. Told that woman things I never thought I’d ever admit to anyone. Felt right good to unburden myself, you want to know the truth. And after that first night of sneaking around, we did the same thing every chance we got, and by God, I don’t regret a minute of it.

  We’ve gone and kept such close company seems as how most people here at Rolling Hills have pretty much decided we’re some kind of an item or other. And, hell, must confess that I’ve taken to accompanying her out on bingo nights, too, and any other place I can think to meet her. And most days, the pair of us, along with General Black Jack Pershing, hijack the best corner out on the sunporch so we can sit together, talk, remember our pasts, and relax.

  Big ole cat even likes the woman. And that’s quite a considerable accomplishment for an independent soul like Black Jack. ’Cause up till now I’ve not found anybody else other than me that he’ll even tolerate. Well,
he liked Carlton J. Cecil okay I suppose, but as you’re well aware, that redheaded scamp passed away nigh on a year ago.

  Hate to even think about it, but I miss the hell out of ole Carl, and I’m still mad at him for up and dying the way he went and done, the son of a bitch. Know I told him more times than I can count that I just might kill him myself, but I never meant it. Not a single word.

  Given my blood-saturated past, have to say as how everything went along so swimmingly after I met Martha it’s a wonder the law hasn’t arrested me for having way more fun than a body ought to be allowed, while still wearing his underpants. Leastways up till last night, that is.

  See, Martye, oh, forgot to mention, she likes me to call her Martye. Says it makes her feel younger. Anyhow, Martye showed up at my door, strolled in, grabbed my hand and rubbed up against me, then said, “Great movie tonight, Hayden. One of my favorite actors is starring in this picture—Henry Fonda. You’re going to love it. Given your lawman’s background I figure this one’s just your cup of tea.”

  As we wobbled out the door of my room, then headed on down the hall, I grinned and said, “And what might tonight’s feature flick be about, darlin’?”

  She held tight to my arm. “Why, it’s a western.”

  Stopped me dead in my tracks. Held the gal at arm’s length and stared into those hazel pools. “Now I know we’ve never discussed this before, but I hate western movies. Haven’t seen one of them yet that wasn’t a total rasher of bullshit.”

  “Hayden Tilden. Such language.”

  “Sorry, darlin’, just slipped out.”

  “You’re forgiven. And why is it that you feel western movies are a rasher of—well, you know?” she said, then went to pulling on me till I finally gave up and followed along.