by Zoe Burke
Mary spoke calmly. “My name is Mary Rosen.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t recognize me, dear.” She turned back to Mickey. “You don’t want to turn me over to the police because one of them just kidnapped your lovely Annabelle.”
The cab driver jerked to attention and squinted at me in his rear-view mirror.
“He probably wasn’t a policeman,” I said.
“You don’t know that for certain, dear.”
All I did know for certain was that Mary did not have Alzheimer’s. She was making too much sense.
We needed a plan and, I figured, a change of scenery. My stomach growled. I flashed on Heat, with Pacino and DeNiro. The cop and the thief meet at a restaurant and talk amiably about how they won’t hesitate to kill each other. Not a great movie, but I liked how cool they were.
“Food,” I said.
“Food?” Mickey sort of shouted.
“Food. Let’s go somewhere and eat something and decide what to do.”
Luis turned in his seat toward us. “We should go somewhere, anywhere, amigos.”
Mickey took a deep breath. “Why don’t you take all of us to a coffee shop. One that’s out of the way. We clearly have some sorting out to do.”
“Sure thing.” Luis put the taxi in gear and eased into traffic. Mary looked straight ahead. Mickey and I traded glances, and then I turned to the window. It was dusk, and the lights of the Strip were coming alive while we headed away from them, their colors brightly flashing and offering no solace at all.
Chapter Five
When I was in my mid twenties, Nana started showing all the signs of dementia. Physically, she was still in great shape. She was only seventy, still driving, keeping her own house, tending her garden. But she repeated herself all the time and forgot how to do simple things like turn on the oven. She got lost more than once while running errands, calling my mother and saying alarming things like, “Honey, where am I supposed to be right now?” She never got nasty and antagonistic, which was a blessing, but instead slowly slipped into another reality that had less and less to do with our own. Mom and Dad moved her into Tall Oaks about two years later and though at first she didn’t like it and kept trying to leave, she eventually grew used to the place and I could tell she felt safe there. That was the most important thing.
Tall Oaks is a ritzy place as far as retirement homes go. The residents range from the super wealthy to the comfortably middle class—Nana was decidedly of the latter group. The rooms are large and can accommodate the residents’ own furniture, so they feel as much at home as possible. I liked most of the staff, and the nurses seemed to be especially fond of Nana.
Nana was my best friend in the world while I was growing up. She didn’t bake cookies and knit afghans, but she did drive me to my Brownie meetings in a big Pontiac convertible—top always down, even in winter—taught me how to dance, recited poetry and memorable lines from famous plays, knew enough about plumbing to fix leaky kitchen sink pipes, and played a mean game of Crazy Eights. When her illness overtook her, I faithfully visited her each Sunday, driving north from my apartment in San Francisco over the Golden Gate Bridge into Sonoma County and Santa Rosa. Sometimes she knew who I was and sometimes she didn’t, but she was always glad to see me. Occasionally we would watch movies on TV. Other times I would read Ogden Nash poems to her—they always made her laugh—and Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses, which she gave me when I was six. We’d sing together, too, old standards. She could remember her favorites, like “Lullaby of Birdland,” even when she could remember nothing else.
Nana died in her sleep a couple of months before I flew to Chicago for that book convention. My parents were vacationing in Europe when it happened, so I arranged for her furniture to be put in storage, and I packed up the few personal things she had at Tall Oaks and took them home with me—some clothes, a few baubles and scarves, and an old pendulum clock that hadn’t worked ever since I could remember. As Luis drove us to the coffee shop, I teared up, missing Nana terribly and remembering Mom’s heartbroken face when I gave her the clock and the rest of Nana’s things.
“Here we are.” Luis pulled up alongside an all-night eatery adorned with the neon message, “The Full House: Where You Don’t Have to Get Lucky to Get a Good Meal.”
“Seems fine, Luis,” Mickey said. “You want to join us inside or wait for us in the cab? I’d like you to stick around, if you can.”
“Coffee sounds good, but the meter is running, you understand?”
“How about this. I’ll buy you a meal, and I’ll pay you $200 plus the current meter charges, plus any additional meter charges that we incur once we leave here. Sound fair?” I had noticed that money didn’t seem to be a problem for Mickey. He wore designer sunglasses, he overtipped, and that suite, well, I figured he had to be one helluva salesman.
“Bueno. Let’s eat.” Luis turned off the engine and the four of us entered The Full House. It was not full. It was nearly empty. We slid into a big booth, looked over the menus—which offered everything anyone could ever want, from all-day breakfast to steak dinners, with juice, milkshakes, and booze—and ordered. I chose a garden burger and stuck with Diet Coke, Mary ordered a bourbon on the rocks, Luis got coffee and a three-cheese omelet with a side of bacon. I was a little more than disappointed when Mickey ordered calamari. Ick.
When the waitress walked away, Mickey started. “So, this is how I think our situation sums up. Annabelle and I are being chased by a thug or thugs…”
“You mean that fake policeman?”
“Mary, if you don’t mind, I would like to just lay out the situation before we get into a big discussion.” Mickey was sounding a little tired.
“Fine, Mr. Paxton. I understand.” The waitress showed up with the drinks, and Mary proceeded to down her bourbon just as dramatically as Bette Davis did in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? She motioned to the waitress for another. “Please go on.”
“Thank you. We’ve been kidnapped and assaulted. The police are looking for Mary, we think Annabelle and Mary have some nearly forgotten past in common. Luis here had the misfortune of picking us all up in his cab and finding himself involved in our various getaways.”
Luis poured some cream in his mug. “Misfortune? Tonight I am a rich man.” He slurped his coffee.
“Whatever. Now, we don’t know who is after us or why, and we’re not sure if the police really are hunting for Mary. And, the question I have to ask is this: is there a connection between our two situations?”
“Mr. Paxton! I may be a thief, but I assure you, I do not keep company with thugs.” Mary seemed appalled.
I jumped in. “Mary, you have to see this from our point of view. I mean, I got kidnapped and ran into an acquaintance of my grandmother’s, who’s evading the law, all in a matter of hours—well, actually minutes.” I looked at Mickey. “But it does seem unlikely, nevertheless. Mary doesn’t know anything about me. She was at Tall Oaks the last few months or so that Nana was alive. You know, Mary, come to think of it, I hadn’t seen you there for the couple of weeks before Nana died. To tell you the truth, I figured you had passed away, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
Mary smiled. “I broke my foot. I was reaching for something and fell. It was a bad break, and I was in rehab for quite a spell.”
“Well, anyway, Mickey, Mary and I only had a passing acquaintance. I’d see her in the lobby and say hello. That’s all.”
Mary’s second drink had shown up, and she took a big gulp. “Well, dear, that’s not quite all.”
“Oh boy, here we go again.” Mickey leaned back against the booth and rolled his eyes up at the acoustic-tile suspended ceiling.
“I don’t like your tone, Mickey, I really don’t.”
“My tone, Annabelle? Here’s what I don’t like: not knowing what the HELL is going on!” Mickey obviously had control iss
ues.
“Oh, my, please stop, the two of you, please. It’s just that I remember something that Annabelle doesn’t.” Mary took another swallow.
“Annabelle doesn’t seem to remember things well at all, I’m coming to learn!”
“I remember things just fine, Mickey! Usually, anyway! I mean, I forget my keys sometimes, and I lose sunglasses regularly…But I’m not a flake and I’ve been completely honest with you. And right now you should just let Mary talk!” I took a slug of Diet Coke, to calm myself.
“Yes, if you don’t mind, Mick, chill, and let her continue,” Luis joined in.
Mickey shook his head and continued eyeballing the ceiling.
Mary swallowed the last of her second bourbon and cleared her throat. “I used to sit with Annabelle’s grandmother in the afternoons. The nurses let me visit the Alzheimer’s wing every day—it’s a secure wing, Mr. Paxton, so that the patients don’t wander out and get lost—and I became very fond of Nana. I read to her sometimes. She was very sweet. Sometimes she thought I was her sister.”
I smiled. “Really? Phyllis? Did she call you Phyllis?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I believe she called me Sara.”
“That was Phyllis’ daughter, my mother’s cousin. Phyllis was Nana’s sister, and Sara’s mother. So Sara was actually my first cousin once removed. They lived in Omaha, and sometimes…”
“Annabelle!” Mickey interrupted.
“Okay, okay.”
Mary continued. “One day I was still with Nana when Annabelle came into her room. I introduced myself then, and we had a lovely conversation.”
Everyone sat there for a minute and stared at Mary. Finally Mickey snapped, “That’s it? That’s the whole story? That’s the extent of the secret past of Doris Stonington a.k.a. Mary Rosen and Beatrice Annabelle Starkey? You once had a lovely conversation? This really clears things up.”
“Mr. Paxton, I never said anything about solving any problems. I merely was reminding Annabelle about the full extent of our previous encounters. I do apologize if I have disappointed you.” Mary sniffed.
Mickey shut his eyes. “I am merely trying to get to the bottom of things, and we seem to have reached another dead end.”
“No, we haven’t,” I said. Mickey swiveled his eyes and raised his eyebrows at me. “I remember that lovely conversation now. Mary told me about her son. Didn’t you tell me about your son, Mary?”
“Well, now, dear, I don’t remember exactly what we talked about. I could have told you about my son.” Mary reached up and patted her hair gingerly.
“Why is this important?” Mickey gave us what he probably thought was a smile, but it was really a grimace.
“Because, Mickey, Mary’s son’s name is Jake. And as I recall, he was a football player.”
“My goodness, dear, you do have a fine memory after all!”
I kept my eyes on Mickey until he said, “Jake?”
“Jake.”
Mary chimed in. “Why, yes, Jake!”
Luis frowned. “Nice name.”
“Can we assume he’s a big man, Mary?” Mickey asked.
“Oh yes, quite big. Actually, it has been quite a while since I last saw him, but I think I can safely assume that he is still big.”
“Yes, I think you can assume that.” Now I started fidgeting with my hair.
“Finally, we’re getting somewhere,” said Mickey.
“Really! We are? Do you know Jake?” asked Mary.
“Jake held us at gunpoint tonight.”
Mary smiled, which I thought was truly an inappropriate response. A shriek or an incredulous gasp would have made more sense. But instead, she sat there grinning, as goofy as Ruth Gordon in Harold and Maude.
“This is amusing to you, Mary?” I suddenly didn’t like her very much.
“The man on the elevator with you was not my son.” She shook her bourbon glass, rattling the ice cubes. “The last I knew, he was in jail.”
“Aha! So he’s a convict, too! Why am I not surprised? Why was HE in jail?” Mickey leaned toward Mary over the table.
“Well, Mr. Paxton, for the same reason I was. He’s a gambler, and he got in too deep and couldn’t pay off a loan, and he ended up killing someone.”
At this moment Luis was taking another swallow of coffee and he coughed and sprayed it over his plate. He wiped his mouth. “Sorry. Went down the wrong pipe.”
I set my hand on Mary’s shoulder. “You said you were in jail for stealing. So that’s not the same reason Jake was in jail. I mean, murder is not stealing.” Why was I trying to help her out, even though I felt like I was going to barf?
“I didn’t say anything about murder. It was self defense. He went to his bookie to explain about the money, and the bookie came at him, and Jake hit him on the head and the man died. But he got sent to jail anyway on second-degree murder.”
Luis no longer looked like he considered himself a lucky man. He scanned all of us through a Clint Eastwood squint. After a few moments, during which we were all silent, he spoke. “What’s next?”
The waitress showed up balancing plates on her arms and began distributing them. Mickey slouched down, frowned at his plate of fried calamari and pushed it away, unfortunately in my direction. I scrunched up my nose and pushed it back.
Luis and I started eating. I was ravenous, which was not unusual. Stress always makes me feel like I need to bulk up a few pounds. Mary picked at Mickey’s calamari. While I was on my third mouthful of veggie burger, Mickey coughed and straightened.
“Mary, I don’t trust you. Annabelle, I’m trying to trust you. But I need answers. So, here’s what’s next. We’re going back to the hotel to get Jake, and we’re going to make him tell us what is going on.”
Mickey stood up. I swallowed, grabbed his arm, and gave him my best you-have-to-be-out-of-your-mind look: jaw dropped, eyes wide and blinking. “Uh, I don’t think so! I do not think that is a good idea!”
“Chances are, Annabelle, that Jake is still tied up with your dental floss. And don’t you want to know what the hell is going on? He’s our best source of information.”
“Yeah, but what if he’s not still tied up, and he has friends with him, bad guys, and they all have guns? We’ll all be dead or kidnapped.”
“Not likely. I think we’ll be just fine.”
“Oh really? Why?” I shoved the last of the veggie burger in my mouth.
“Because first of all we’re not even sure that he has any friends. And second of all, because we’ve got Mary with us. Jake won’t hurt his mother, will he, Mary?” Mickey turned to her. “If we all go and see Jake, will he hurt you and us?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say, because he’s not my son.” Mary shook her head back and forth.
Mickey shrugged his shoulders with a you’ve-got-to-admit-this-sounds-like-a good-plan expression. I stood up, still chewing, and managed to ask, “What if Jake isn’t Mary’s son?”
“It’s the only connection we have!”
“Yes, but she really didn’t recognize him on the elevator.”
“Annabelle, smarten up here. She’s faking it. She’s lying now and she was faking it then. At least consider that possibility.”
“Okay. And you have to consider the possibility that he’s not her son.”
Luis whistled. “We are back to zero, my friends.”
Mickey threw money on the table for the bill. “Let’s get out of here.”
“And go where?” I grabbed a handful of French fries.
“I don’t know. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
“I’ll stay here, Mr. Paxton. There’s really no need for you to concern yourself with me,” said Mary.
Mickey glowered at her. “Are you kidding me? I don’t trust you past my little finger. If you are Jake’s mother, and I mean the Jake that we k
now, you could be setting us up, calling him to come find us.”
“But you don’t have to tell me where you’re going.”
“Lady, you’ve got Luis’ medallion number memorized, I bet. I don’t want you putting Luis in danger, or us. So we’re sticking together for a while. In fact, forget the hotel and Jake. Let’s take our chances with the police station. Back to plan A. How does that sound?” Mickey looked at me.
“Sure. Let’s go.” I had no reason to trust Mary or go out on a limb for her.
Luis got up, but Mary refused. “Please, don’t do this. I cannot go back to Tall Oaks. Surely you can tell by now that I don’t belong there. I am fully independent, I am not demented, I do not need caregivers. My family just stuck me in there as a way to keep track of me. I am not trying to harm any of you in any way.”
I was ready to leave her there at this point, too tired and confused to save anyone but myself…and maybe Mickey. But then the roar of a car charging too fast into the parking lot and car doors slamming caught our attention. Out the window we spied Jake and another guy hustling toward the restaurant.
“Holy crap,” I said. All of us, including Mary, frantically sought a way out of the diner.
Luis shouted “There!” and pointed to a back door with an exit sign. We ran out faster than you can say pigs-in-a-blanket. As luck would have it—we were in Las Vegas, after all—Luis had parked near our exit, far from the entrance. We piled in, Mickey took the front seat this time, and Luis tore off.
Mickey whirled to glare at Mary. “Was that your doing, Mary? Did you call Jake and tell him where to find us? Did you?”
Mary didn’t answer, but I stated the facts. “She never left the table, Mickey. She couldn’t have called him.”
Mickey turned back around. No one said anything else. Luis kept driving, and lucky for us he knew what he was doing. He made lots of sudden turns, getting us out of the city, and drove fast on the straightaways. After a few minutes he slowed down. “We’re fine, now.”
It was plenty fine with me that where we were going was up to Luis. Frankly, I expected him to take us to the police station, but he drove for about twenty minutes, a ways out of Las Vegas and into another town, some nowhere place in the middle of the flat desert landscape. The small, ranch-style houses had asphalt or ground red rocks for front yards. I figured each one had a kidney-shaped pool behind it. Not much vegetation. Only a few cars on the streets. It was the last place in America I would want to live. “Wow. Who could live here?”
