Death Perception

by Lee Allen Howard

  “No. I took French. To impress the ladies. Ooh-la-la, oui-oui!”

  Christy snorted. “We see how much you learned and where it’s gotten you with the ladies. Are wild musk cows impressed by your bilingual charm, Stinky? I think not. I’m taking Spanish,” she said to Kennet.

  “Cool. What’s ola mean, O-L-A. Hello?”

  “Mm, no.” She licked her ice cream. “Sounds the same. Ola means wave. Like the ocean.”

  Kennet nodded and crunched his cone. What was a message of the ocean doing in a graveyard? Maybe it wasn’t about the ocean. There were all kinds of waves: light waves, sound waves, waving hands, flags. He hadn’t figured it out just yet, but he would eventually. He knew it in his heart.

  When they dropped him off at Costa’s Personal Care Home, it was almost 10:00. Kennet thanked them and, before he shut the truck door, Christy leaned out and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Loretta’s is the place for you, I know it. It’s your ticket out.”

  He hugged her back, hoping she was right, and then shut the Toyota’s door. As Nathan backed out of the driveway, Kennet stood in the headlights and waved goodbye. Then, touching his cheek where Christy had kissed him, he turned and walked up the dark lane.

  Chapter 20

  Kennet trekked the lane toward the house, crunching gravel underfoot. It was full dark, past the residents’ bedtime, and he was glad. He never regretted missing the commotion of Alex and Flavia herding the folks to their rooms and getting them ready for a night’s rest: going to the bathroom; brushing their dentures, or their teeth if they still had any; administering meds; getting into bed and raising the rails.

  Flavia’s Malibu wasn’t in the driveway, but a truck was, and it wasn’t Alex’s GMC beater. It was a big green Ford with lawn equipment in the back. Nathan would give his eye teeth for such an outfit. “Ramirez Landscaping” was decaled on the driver’s door.

  Kennet peered up at the lights in the third-floor windows of Flavia’s apartment. He peeked in the garage door windows but knew her car wouldn’t fit in there with all the extra bed parts and wheelchairs and junk. Maybe she went grocery shopping. But why was the truck here? It was too dark for gardening.

  Kennet slipped into the house quietly and paused on the landing above the basement stairs. Instead of descending to the dungeon, he toed off his sneakers, padded down the front hall to the foyer, and sneaked up the front stairs to the second and then the third floor. The nightlight spread a rose-colored aura on the ancient wool carpet there, and yellow light seeped from beneath Flavia’s door and shined through the keyhole.

  Downstairs the kitchen door opened and closed, then footsteps creaked on the stairs. He ducked into the alcove and squatted beneath the double window that overlooked the front yard and Smithfield. The footsteps continued to the third floor, and he tensed as someone crossed the hall in front of him. He clenched his teeth and hoped whoever it was couldn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest.

  A key clattered in Flavia’s lock, the door opened, closed, and then the safety chain rattled into place.

  Kennet uncovered his mouth and caught his breath. He was sweating now. He wiped his temples on his tee-shirt sleeves. He waited until his heart slowed, several minutes, before moving from his cramped position.

  He smelled Flavia’s spicy perfume. It must have been her returning from wherever she was.

  He crept to her door. He pressed his face to the cool metal escutcheon and peered through the bright keyhole. Inside, a stout, barrel-chested man stood, wearing nothing but tight white briefs. Ramirez the landscaper? Embarrassed, Kennet was about to move away when he peered back in. Where’s Ms.—

  She appeared in his line of vision, decked out in a tight leather mini-skirt, short boots with stiletto heels, a form-fitting bodice, and a half-mask with spiked eye fins. Her lips were the color of boiling blood. She gripped a braided leather riding crop in her finely manicured hand. With a snap of her arm, she switched Ramirez across the chest. He immediately dropped to his knees.

  “Esmerelda, have mercy on me, your slave!”

  Esmerelda?!

  She moved around and switched his backside. Ramirez moaned and pleaded some more.

  My God. Ms. Costa, a sadist? Kennet had seen enough.

  His face burning, he silently backed away on his hands and knees. He eased himself down the steps all the way to the basement where he undressed and climbed onto the uncomfortable cot. He tried to sleep, but the images in the sinister darkness this time weren’t his father’s flying fists, but Ms. Costa’s dimpled white thighs, crimson lips, and the slashing whip.

  Chapter 21

  Kennet woke to the Sunday morning rumble of rocking chairs on the porch floor above his room. He was sleeping in because he had no work to do. He couldn’t cremate anyone else until Mr. Grinold returned to town, and it was too soon to cut the grass at the cemetery. He lay on the sagging cot, thinking about what he saw on the third floor last night.

  He never dreamed that Ms. Costa—which she insisted on being called, never Mrs.—played such kinky games during her off hours. She always seemed so conservative. Not that she didn’t deserve to have a love life. She’d gone on dates before, but not often. And not for a while. She had no steady boyfriend since she quit seeing that guy who worked at the hospital. Not a doctor or a nurse. Kennet couldn’t remember exactly what the man did, but it had something to do with healthcare.

  Flavia was businesslike. She let little get in the way of her profession. But caring for the elderly by day and engaging in S&M at night didn’t sit right with him. They weren’t on the same planet. Not even in the same universe. And why the landscaper?

  She hadn’t used Ramirez for yard work last year. She planted a few things herself, and Kennet had helped her with the weeding and the watering. Did she meet Ramirez elsewhere and give him the business—Kennet snickered at this—because they established a relationship outside of work? Or did she simply pick him out of the Yellow Pages and decide to have a go with him? Contact Ramirez Landscaping for all your landscaping, lawn maintenance, and sex-slave needs. He tittered again, then felt a little guilty, as if his mother were scowling at him.

  Kennet couldn’t shake the image of them through the keyhole: the grim set of her mouth, the snap of her cruel wrist as she switched the man kneeling in his tightie-whities. She obviously wasn’t the woman he thought she was.

  And how did Ramirez get into her room? Did she let him in, step out to get something, and then return? Or did he have his own key?

  If they were this serious, surely Kennet would have heard her mention him before, like her former boyfriend—the anesthesiologist. But Ms. C was no longer seeing him. Maybe Ramirez was just a hookup.

  When another rocker doubled the rumble above him, he finally got up, grabbed his towel, and then showered over the basement drain. He wrapped the towel around himself and retreated to his room to dry off. He was hiking up his boxers when his door flew open with a bang.

  “Jeez, Alex! You scared the hell out of me.”

  Alex bore a foul look on his chiseled face, and he stood in the doorway, flexing his arms. His tight scrub top bunched at his armpits because his chest and shoulders were so big.

  “What do you want?” Kennet demanded, reaching for his tee-shirt.

  Alex grabbed him by the arms and threw him on the cot like a child.

  “What the—!”

  Alex climbed on top of him and placed one brutish knee on his chest. Kennet could hardly breathe.

  “What the . . . hell are you doing, asshole?” He struggled to move Alex’s bulk off him, but there was no budging him. He was just too big.

  “Listen, dickwad,” Alex said in a low voice, “you better snap it up and get your skinny ass outta this house if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Why,” Kennet grunted, “do you care?”

  “I’ve made it my business to care. Get out, this week, or I’m gonna have to lean on you a little harder.” Grinding his
square jaw, Alex jounced his knee down.

  Kennet felt something crack, groaned when sharp pain stabbed into his chest. Alex launched off him and cast a nasty glance over his shoulder on the way out the door. Kennet gasped for breath and watched him go.

  • • •

  “Delores? I’ve got what you want.” Grinold stood at a payphone in the back of a 7-Eleven, plugging his other ear with a pudgy finger.

  In North Carolina he had purchased a variety of things at a few boutiques with his credit card—except for the Jimson weed, for which he paid cash—and made several cell phone calls to provide an alibi for his whereabouts. On his way back he stopped in Hancock, Maryland, to fill the Lincoln with gas, relieve himself, and see if he could arrange to meet with Delores.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “You deserve better than Mabon and the life he’s given you. . . .” Did she really think he would accept her reasoning? Did she actually think he cared? Especially after blackmailing him. But he needed to play along. “What I’m about to give you will help you get a new start, make the most of yourself.”

  She sounded excited, yet cautious. He chucked in three more quarters. He wasn’t about to make this call from his cell phone or a calling card. It would be recorded on her cell records, but there was no way to prove he had placed the call. He’d punched in star-67 to block the number, just to be safe. He had told a number of people that he would be in Winston-Salem for a few days. But no one knew he was returning early, and there must be no evidence of his premature arrival.

  “I’ve arranged to get the cash,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Now we need to meet so I can give it to you.”

  “Do you want to come over? Mabon will be gone until sunset.”

  “No, I’m up north.”

  “At the cabin near my aunt’s?”

  “Yes. Let’s meet here.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Remember my friend with the key?”

  “Haven’t forgotten. That’s why I have the money now, isn’t it?”

  She cackled, a very unpretty sound. “Well, he or she needs to hear from me and know that I’m safe, so don’t get any ideas.”

  “Of course not. Can you meet me there tomorrow?”

  “Why wait till tomorrow? Let’s make it tonight.”

  “Even better,” he said. “Just don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

  “Don’t worry, Cecil. I’m not stupid. You should know that by now.”

  We’ll see about that, you bitch. He said, “I’ll meet you there, say, around five. Won’t take long. But I don’t want to be seen with you anywhere near home.”

  “Matters not to me, long as you have the money. I’ll see you at the cabin at five tonight.”

  Grinold hung the receiver, wiping it with his handkerchief for safe measure. He needed to make it to north-central Pennsylvania by 4:30 at the latest. He checked his watch. Almost noon. He could do it if he got back on the road now.

  He climbed in his car and drove north.

  • • •

  At the lunch table, Kennet passed the bread plate and then the mayonnaise to Putterman. He was pushing his luck continuing to show up for meal times, but he knew Flavia wouldn’t say or do anything in front of the residents. Safety in numbers, he hoped.

  Alex stood in the entrance to the parlor, beefy arms locked over his chest. With a drilling stare he spewed hate at Kennet, but Kennet ignored him.

  “Where’s Helen?” Putterman asked. “She sick? Haven’t seen her lately.” He forked a slice of ham from the platter and then passed it to Gladys Wilson.

  Flavia was preparing Sylvia Kryszewski’s sandwich for her. Without looking up, she said, “A niece picked her up and moved her to California.”

  “I didn’t know she had any relatives,” Gladys said, spreading the mayo thick on a piece of pumpernickel.

  “Apparently she does, and they wanted to move her to a home closer to them.”

  “When was this?” Kennet delivered the words with enough import that Flavia looked up. Her dark eyes were like stone: hard and ungiving.

  “The other day.”

  “Which day?”

  She cut Sylvia’s sandwich in half. “You were at the cemetery.”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Couldn’ta been yesterday,” Putterman said, scowling at the lettuce falling out of his sandwich. “I was downstairs all day, and I didn’t see anyone come.”

  “Then you must have nodded off, Albert.” Flavia wiped her hands on her apron. “It happened rather suddenly, but they had the proof of relationship, and I’m sure Helen would have bid you all farewell, if she had the presence of mind to do so.” She abandoned the dining room.

  “Wasn’t yesterday,” Putterman told Kennet and speared a kosher dill.

  Through the door to the kitchen, Kennet saw Flavia leaning against the sink, gazing out the window. When he looked for Alex, Alex was gone.

  • • •

  Flavia dumped a Xanax from the pharmacy vial into her shaking hand. She swallowed it with tap water from a Dixie cup, which she crushed and dropped into the wastecan beside her apartment sink.

  Albert knows what I’m up to. Or at least knows something’s going on. Not good. Breath hitched in her chest. Was she losing her grip? So many had died. She feared the situation was slipping out of her control, and that must not happen. She stared at her lined face in the mirror.

  Must. Not. Happen.

  She needed another resident to fill Helen Streider’s room, but everyone on the waiting list was well connected, had family close by. The money was in the turnover, not the long-term care.

  She had to stop. She knew that. No one could die for a few months. More like a year. At least not by her hand. But Albert might prove to be a problem.

  Flavia moved into the dinette area and opened the dry bar with the small brass key. She poured and downed a shot of Sambuca and then glanced at the cupboard shelf where she kept her secret ledger book in a black cardboard box.

  She had goals, goals she mustn’t fail to meet. She would hold it together until it was time to cash out. You can do it. Then she would retire in style, in a way her worthless husband never would have provided for her.

  She freshened her makeup and then headed back downstairs, careful to hold the handrail.

  Chapter 22

  Grinold carried Delores her tea from the camp stove, a brew he made especially for her from the jimsonweed he’d traveled all the way to North Carolina to purchase. He set it before her, along with his own cup, which had no jimsonweed in it. Then he sat down across from her and pulled a black satchel from beneath his overcoat. He was sweating profusely, but he needed to keep the coat on.

  “Is that the money?” Delores’s eyes shone with greed as she stared at the satchel.

  “As promised.”

  She turned her straw-haired head away and barked into her hand.

  “Is your asthma bothering you?”

  She flattened her fingers against her breastbone. “It’s the trees and the grass in this area. They bother me this time of year.”

  Perfect. “Did you take your pill today?”

  She continued to cough, a raw, sawing sound. It turned his stomach.

  “Don’t you think you should take one? That way you’ll be able to enjoy our time together.”

  She sneered at him and rummaged in her purse for her prescription bottle.

  Take two, they’re small. But she shook only one into her fleshy palm. That was all right. One was enough to mask the jimsonweed. Her prescription was an older drug—probably from an older doctor. Thank God for older doctors.

  “Water?” he asked, starting to rise from the table.

  “This will do.” She popped the pill in her mouth and chased it with a sip of tea.

  Perfect! He made an effort to remain visibly calm.

  When she finished coughing, she said, “Fifty thousand, right?” She looked him in the eye, but he sensed nervousness and insecurity behind
her watery gaze. She was playing out of her league.

  “Of course.” He unzipped the satchel, spread open the foil wrapping inside, and then thumbed through the fifty banded stacks one by one.

  She reached for it, but he pulled it away and packaged it back up securely.

  “Give it to me.” Her countenance hardened, and along with fear there was anger in her eyes.

  “Not yet. Not quite.” Grinold relished the growing panic in her features.

  Outside the cabin, the sky was growing overcast, dark clouds descending toward the clear horizon. He willed the rain to hold off. The ground was hard, and he wanted it to remain that way to prevent their tires from leaving tracks in mud. Another few minutes and they would be out of here. Thankfully, the place was remote and there was little traffic. He wanted no one to see their vehicles. He knew it was impossible to guarantee this, but the fewer witnesses to their whereabouts, the better. Except for one person.

  “So how is Aunt Bertha?”

  Delores coughed again and took a few swallows of tea before she responded. He was concerned she would suddenly stop and look suspiciously into the cup, but she didn’t. She had money on her mind. He sipped his own tea, watching her over the rim.

  “Fine. She was happy to see me.” Delores did not sound happy to be making chit-chat.

  “You didn’t tell her you were meeting me here, did you?”

  She crossed her arms across her flabby breasts and looked at him incredulously. “Of course not. Do you think I’m a total fool?”

  No, just fool enough. “Did you tell anyone else where you were going? Because if you did, I’ll be keeping the money.”

  Her red mouth squirmed. “If you don’t hand over that bag, my friend will put those packages in the mail, and your life will be over. Now give me the goddamn money.” She succumbed to another coughing fit and drank more tea.

  Cecil harrumphed with mock offense and proffered the satchel to her. When she reached for it, he drew it back.

  “Not quite yet. There’s something you owe me.”