Death Trap

by Sue Henry

  Tank and Pete, who had been ranging widely in the surrounding woods, examining everything they found, gamboling through the brush like half-grown pups, leaping over logs and chasing each other, now returned to where Jessie had lowered herself to a stump to watch their performance. They sat down together in front of her like a pair of bookends, panting with exertion.

  “You’re a couple of fakers and clowns,” she told them affectionately, elbows on knees, chin cupped in the palms of her hands to bring her face closer to their level. Pete reached up to give her nose a sloppy lick, which made her laugh. “Had enough? Shall we go home?”

  Evidently they had, for when she stood up, they headed back the way they had come, toward the cabin and dog yard, walking slowly now, content to keep her company.

  The yard, when they reached it, was just as she had left it. Jessie fastened Pete and Tank to their tethers and watched as they thirstily lapped the water in their pans. As soon as they were satisfied, they lay down on the straw that covered the floor of their boxes, ready for a nap.

  Jessie turned to watch a pickup pass on Knik Road, and the sight of the mailbox at that end of her drive reminded her that it was time to collect whatever the postman had left her, if anything. Slowly she walked the length of the drive, avoiding several puddles that would soon be iced over, and pulled a scant handful of letters and bills from the box, along with a Snickers bar, which brought a grin to her face. With the mail, Ted the postman periodically left a treat from the stash he carried on his appointed rounds, and clearly he had figured out her preference in sweets.

  Tucking the mail under one arm and peeling back the paper on the candy, she took a bite and, relishing the meld of chocolate, caramel, and nuts, hesitated a minute to look around before heading back up the drive. But there were no vehicles on the road, and nothing moved in the clearing to attract her attention. It seemed very empty, and a sudden sense of isolation brought a wrinkle to her forehead. Everyone she knew who wasn’t busy with dogs was involved in winterizing houses and cabins to make sure the cold stayed outside where it belonged. Even those chores were not waiting for her this year. The summer had been filled with the construction of a brand-new cabin that was solid and winter-proof. It was also unusually neat and orderly, for though housework was never her occupation of choice and her living space was always comfortably cluttered, with plenty of time on her hands she had seized upon every small chore available.

  Slowly Jessie walked back along the drive. Tank and Pete were both snoozing, but Tank opened an eye to watch her pass. She climbed the steps and went inside, where she took off her sweater, then headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea, munching the last bite of the postman’s largesse.

  This is ridiculous, she thought as she waited for the water to boil. There’s gotta be something I can do to keep from going stark raving mad.

  Tea steaming in her favorite cup, she settled on the sofa by the stove to open the handful of envelopes she had retrieved. But before she could do more than sort out and discard the junk mail, the phone rang, and she dropped the rest to cross the room in response.

  “Arnold Kennels.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was familiar and welcome—Joanne Potts, longtime friend and worker with the Iditarod Sled Dog Race.

  “Hey, Joanne,” Jessie greeted her, assuming she must be calling to ask why a registration for the race had not been filed. “You must have heard that I can’t race this year.”

  “Yes—and I was sorry to hear it. But knowing you’re not out training inspired me to call. I’ve got an unexpected problem you might be able to help with, if you would.”

  “What’s up?” Jessie asked, hearing a plea in the woman’s voice. Be careful what you wish for, crossed her mind, remembering what she had just told herself she wanted—something to keep from going bonkers.

  “I’m suddenly short two people to help run our booth at the fair,” Joanne told her in obvious frustration. “Virginia Williams is home sick, and Barbara Brosier had to make an emergency trip to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I’m even taking care of both her dogs, including a Saint Bernard, and two cats, Cotton and Alley. Don’t you love it? Alley cat! But as a result, right now I’m struggling down here by myself and thought you might be able to come down and help me out.”

  The fair! Jessie remembered. The annual Alaska State Fair had started the day before and would run another ten days, through Labor Day, at the grounds in Palmer. How could I have forgotten? she asked herself.

  Her hesitation motivated her caller to another flood of words.

  “You wouldn’t have to be here all the time, or even for the whole week. But if you could help cover some of the busiest times, it would give me the opportunity to find another volunteer or two. Please, Jessie, I’m desperate!”

  Well—why not?

  She considered the physical limitations imposed by her injury. “Can I sit down part of the time? This knee gets tired, and I’m supposed to be letting it heal.”

  The answer was quick and positive. “Sure. Whatever you need. I’ll even fetch you coffee—feed you—almost anything. Yes?”

  “Can I bring Tank?”

  “You bet! I’ve got to sell a pile of lottery tickets and he’d be a great draw. You know how the public loves dogs.”

  Jessie gave in with a grin at the woman’s assurances. “Okay, I’ll do it. When do you want us?”

  The relief in Joanne’s answer carried clearly over the line. “Now! Yesterday! As soon as you can get here?”

  “Give me an hour or so.”

  “Thanks a bunch. I hoped I could count on you.” And she was gone, leaving Jessie to drop the phone back in its cradle, a sense of anticipation rising.

  She loved the fair and went every year, usually more than once. But she had never helped out and would now have a chance to see how it worked from the inside. Besides, having run the Iditarod several times in the past, she felt identification with the race and was inclined to support it in any way she could.

  This’ll be fun, she thought, turning her attention to what needed to be done before she could leave.

  What could possibly not be fun about the Alaska State Fair?

  She had no way of knowing that the answer to such an assumption would not be long in coming.

  CHAPTER 3

  “That was the day you ran into me, right?” Ten-year-old Danny Tabor looked up at Jessie from his place on the floor at her feet.

  “Yes, but I didn’t get to know you till later.”

  “When I came to visit Tank at the booth.”

  Phil Becker interrupted their exchange with a recommendation. “You better tell how you got to the fair, Danny.”

  “Aw, do I have to?”

  “I think you should. It’s a significant part of the story.”

  “Well—okay.” He wiggled a little in embarrassment, sat up straighter, and took a deep breath. “It was because I forgot to mow the lawn…”

  I’m not going to tell you again, Danny.”

  The woman, her arms half to the elbows in a sink full of dirty dishes, cast an aggravated glance over her shoulder at the boy who stood glowering in the kitchen doorway, wiped perspiration from her forehead with one arm, and sighed in frustration.

  “Your father said you couldn’t go, and he’s not going to change his mind. You’d better get the lawn mowed before he comes home for lunch.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not fair I can’t go. I saved my allowance all summer.”

  “You should have thought of that yesterday.”

  “But when I get it mowed, then can I go?”

  “Not this weekend. You’ve also got summer reading homework—that book report you’re supposed to have for Miss Carson at the library on Monday. You haven’t even finished the book.”

  “It’s a boring book.”

  “You liked Treasure Island.”

  “That had pirates and treasure. This is just some old guy stuck on an island. Bor-ing.”

  “Everything c
an’t have pirates. Robinson Crusoe is a fine book.”

  Danny glared through the strands of light brown hair that fell over his eyes and, as persistent as he was angry, tossed them back, pounded an impotent fist against the frame of the door, and allowed a wheedling tone to creep into his voice. “Ple-e-eze let me go, Ma.”

  “No!” she told him without turning. “Give it up, Danny. It’s your own fault and…”

  “Dammit!” he interrupted and, advancing two strides into the kitchen, kicked the leg of a chair, making it—and his mother—jump. Incensed, she swung around to raise a warning hand in his direction, flinging water and soapsuds onto the floor between them.

  “Don’t you dare swear at me! You’ll—”

  But realizing he had pushed his mother past her limits of sympathy or tolerance, Danny had already vanished. She heard the door to his room slam behind him.

  Now he’ll lock himself in and sulk, she thought in irritated discouragement, returning to the task at hand. Well, at least he won’t be whining at me. It worried her that her son didn’t like to read and was slow at it. His teacher had suggested in a parent conference that he would need remedial help if he was not to be held back a year in school. Adding summer reading, even when she and his father worked with him, was creating tension between the boy and his parents. He tended to resist, often disappearing when it was time to read.

  But Danny had no intention of sulking. Visions of the dizzying spin of carnival rides, plus all the hot dogs, popcorn, and sodas he could afford to ingest, filled his mind and whetted his appetite. He could almost taste the sticky texture of cotton candy melting on his tongue. There would be Chinese acrobats, skateboard exhibitions, and booths full of all kinds of tempting stuff. Last year he had come home with colorful plastic streamers for the handlebars of his bicycle, spinners for its wheels, and an inflatable pink flamingo for his little sister. Rebellious grievance and anger at his parents, especially his father, fueled his determination to spend the day with his two best buddies at the Alaska State Fair.

  “Bet he forgot to mow the lawn sometimes,” he muttered to himself as he leaned back against the door he had slammed and locked behind him.

  Checking to make sure it was secure, he stood for a minute making up his mind and building courage. Decision stubbornly made, he squared his shoulders, marched across to the CD player on the top shelf of a corner bookcase, and adjusted the volume upward. Grabbing the jeans jacket and backpack he had earlier stashed under his bed, he raised the window that led to the backyard. Quietly unlatching and raising the screen, he dropped the backpack to the ground beneath, yanked on his jacket, and crawled out. Once there, he glanced around warily to make sure none of the neighbors had observed his unusual egress, then trotted to the rear of the garage, where he had conveniently left his bicycle. Tossing the backpack over a handlebar, he pedaled off across a vacant lot toward a Palmer side street, taking care to keep the garage between himself and the kitchen window.

  Jessie had listened to his account with an encouraging hand on his shoulder. When he paused to take a sip of his soda, she gave him an approving pat, then smiled and turned her attention to another of the company that had gathered in her living room for the evening.

  “You weren’t the only one who ran away from home. We should hear from Mr. Monroe, too.”

  Directly across the room, an older gentleman was comfortably ensconced in an overstuffed chair, feet on a pillowed stool, glass of Guinness in one hand. It was apparent from the twinkle of humor in his eye and his courtly nod in her direction that he was fond of Jessie. “You said you’d call me Frank,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, sir.” She beamed back at him.

  “It’s true that I played truant,” he agreed. “But I postulate that it would be more accurate to say that I ran away from the grocery store. And I took a taxi, not a bicycle—much more efficient, as it dropped me off right at the gate.”

  Jessie had grown used to Monroe’s rather eccentric way of speaking, but considering the grin that twitched Becker’s lips and Danny’s puzzled expression, his use of large words clearly amused and startled more than one of his audience.

  “What’s pos—ah—pos-oo-late mean?” Danny asked.

  “Pos-tu-late. It means ‘to assume’ or ‘to claim’—really ‘to suggest’ something,” Monroe told him. “I suggest that it’s more correct to say that I ran away from the grocery store than from home. Okay?”

  Danny nodded. “Pos-tu-late,” he repeated. “Thanks.”

  His mother gave him a slightly bemused and approving look, surprised at his interest in what the word meant.

  Monroe, catching her eye, gave her a wink and launched into his tale of escape.

  At approximately the same time Danny was crawling out his bedroom window, across town at the Palmer Senior Center for Assisted Living, eighty-two-year-old Frank Monroe was contriving a similar escape, though climbing out a window was not a part of his strategy. His flight plan was of a more complex and opportunistic nature.

  He slipped on his favored and well-worn tweed sports jacket over the light blue shirt he was already wearing, then cupped one of the suede elbow patches in the palm of his hand, enjoying the soft familiar texture for a moment. As he stepped to the mirror to attend to his tie, the door of his room burst open to reveal a chunky female figure clad in a tunic printed solidly with cats in a rainbow of colors.

  “Hurry it up, Frankie. The van is waiting and you’re holding up the parade.”

  The nurse supervisor carried a red pencil in one hand, with which she checked off his name on her clipboard list, then stood waiting, an impatient frown drawing her bushy eyebrows even closer to the visible mustache on her upper lip. Her entrance, unannounced by a knock, as usual, had startled Monroe into dropping the clip with which he had been about to anchor his tie.

  “Did I miss your knock, Miss Richards?” he inquired, bending to retrieve it and giving her a resentful glance in the mirror as he took his time to make sure the clip was centered before inserting the attached chain through a shirt buttonhole. “Must have neglected to turn up my hearing aid again.”

  Ignoring Monroe’s sarcastic comment, she opened the door wider and indicated with an abrupt gesture that he was to precede her through it.

  Didn’t nurses wear white anymore? He speculated for a fleeting moment on her inclination to chose a print that emphasized her physical bulk, decided against asking, and retrieved his cane and ancient leather knapsack from the foot of the bed. From atop the chest of drawers he plucked his gray hat, jaunty green feather in the band, settled it at a slightly rakish angle, and gave himself a nod of approval in the mirror. Better to remain malleable and obedient, today of all days.

  “Come on, Frankie boy,” she demanded.

  Monroe, with a sigh of resignation, sidled past her and waited as she closed the door. Following her down the hallway toward the lobby, he considered his dissatisfaction with Nurse Ratchet, as he had privately dubbed her—stealing the name from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—and the majority of the rest of the staff at the Palmer Senior Center for Assisted Living.

  Buxom Doris Richards, Monroe mused, could have modeled for the figurehead of some eighteenth-century sailing ship, probably British. As a figurehead, she would at least have been silent. But he imagined she would undoubtedly have attempted to organize the fleet and teach Nelson a thing or two had she been available for consultation before the Battle of Trafalgar. Nelson, however, would probably not have tolerated her overbearing superiority and didactic attitude, though she might well have whipped the French and Spanish into surrender in record time, given the opportunity.

  The word harridan came to mind. Why couldn’t the woman ever knock? The door, to his infinite regret, was unlockable. And though he kept it closed, most of the staff ignored the implication, coming and going as though it didn’t exist.

  Complaints to the administrator were useless. She had set her elbows on her desk and made a steeple of her fingers, through w
hich she smiled with fraudulent concern. “We have to have access, Mr. Monroe. What if you had another stroke or a heart attack, and we were unable to reach you quickly? We’re responsible for you now. You must understand that.”

  It had only been a small warning stroke—hardly a hiccup. Even the doctor said so. But it had cost Monroe his driver’s license and precious mobility. Otherwise he was perfectly able to care for himself and, like most senior citizens, cherished his independence. But called upon to provide essential transportation one afternoon a week, his nephew had begun to suggest that he should sell his house and move to an apartment within walking distance of a grocery and pharmacy. When he refused, the term assisted living arose in conversation, and a variety of unwelcome brochures began to clutter his mailbox, extolling the virtues of a succession of what Monroe disparaged as pigeonholes for the almost dead.

  Two minor incidents and the threat of a competency hearing had altered his point of view.

  The first had transpired the preceding February, when he slipped on the return from his mailbox and found himself unable to regain his footing on the icy surface of his walk. A passing neighbor had observed him—mail clenched in his teeth, crawling steadily toward the house, amused at the situation and his own plight—and felt it necessary not only to come to his rescue but to inform his nephew.

  The second incident had involved a stove burner, his ancient teakettle, and an after-dinner nap. The smoke alarm had awakened Monroe to a hot petroleum smell and sent him stumbling to the kitchen in apprehension and with all possible haste. There he found that heat from the glowing electric burner had melted the spout off the teakettle, which had tumbled to scorch a scar into the Formica countertop, filling the air with noxious fumes. A twist of the burner control and a cup of water quickly cooled the neglected source of heat. But the smell was impossible to disguise or get rid of before his nephew appeared the next afternoon. Discovery of the charred spot in the Formica and the teakettle in the trash had inspired the competency threat.