Somewhat Saved

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Somewhat Saved Page 23

by Pat G'Orge-Walker


  “Mr. Epps,” the man said a bit loudly over the whirring sound of the monitor, “I’ll be right back. An ambulance is on its way to take you to the hospital.” He eased past the couple without asking why they were there.

  Zipporah looked at the man lying on the bed and pushed Chandler back out of the doorway.

  “I don’t know that man,” she whispered. She looked away, wanting to avoid the sight of obvious distress. “There must be another patient in here.”

  “This is their only triage room.” Chandler watched. Unlike Zipporah, he didn’t try to avoid seeing the man’s struggle. Instead, he watched the man’s determined effort to live, even though he felt rebuked because he was staring.

  Was his grandmother, Ma Cile, lying in another hospital unable to speak, trying just as hard to call out to him? Right then, he vowed that no matter what was going on in Las Vegas, he was returning with Sister Betty to Pelzer. He was going to see the only woman who’d been his rock. Ma Cile had raised him. She deserved better than what he’d given.

  Compassion forced Zipporah to stay, although she’d seen enough misery in her short time to warrant her leaving. She locked her arm with Chandler’s and followed his gaze to the man on the bed.

  “Have you decided what you’d like to do?” Phelpson had returned. Without waiting for an answer, he placed Jasper’s wallet, hotel keycard, along with a bag that contained his shoes and other personal items, at the foot of Jasper’s bed. “The ambulance is here.”

  Chandler looked at Zipporah. He didn’t want to overstep his place, but she didn’t appear to be able to speak up.

  “How did this happen?” Chandler didn’t know why he’d asked that question when he really meant to ask, “Who is this man?”

  “He collapsed outside one of the hotel rooms. Someone found him and assumed it was his room because the door was partially opened. Apparently, he’d been left alone and tried to leave for help.”

  “Leave for help?” Chandler looked at Zipporah. She was still studying the man on the bed, who seemed to be more alert.

  “Well, there seems to be a problem,” Chandler said softly, “I don’t know this man.”

  “Zip—por—ah.” Jasper’s voice was weak but his words, although halting, were clear.

  Jasper’s head had barely risen before it fell back onto the pillow. His eyes were unfocused and his skin now a pasty, yellowed, almost jaundiced hue. The weightless I.V. tube inserted into his left wrist felt like lead. His lips moved but only a hissing sound came out. All the while he kept beckoning Zipporah with his wide-eyed stare.

  Suddenly Jasper’s lips appeared to snarl just slightly as he again said, “Zip-po-rah.” This time there was no mistaking his words.

  Zipporah and Chandler were stunned. Zipporah was not a common name and they both knew it.

  “That’s what he said when they brought him in. When I recorded his belongings I found your name and room number on that yellow sheet of paper. I stuffed it back into his wallet. There are a couple of other names of folks staying here at the Luxor on it, too. I guess you must be part of a group or something.” Phelpson checked his pager, which had just gone off. “I have to go and sign Mr. Epps over to the EMT folks.”

  Zipporah flipped open the wallet, which had several one-hundred-dollar bills along with credit cards and pieces of paper crammed into it. The yellow sheet stood out.

  Chandler looked over Zipporah’s shoulder as their eyes scanned the numbers scrawled upon the paper. Two numbers immediately leapt out.

  “Isn’t this Mother Blister’s room number?” Zipporah asked. She was stunned.

  “I know that’s her room number just as well as I know that the other number belongs to Mother Pray Onn.”

  “What do they have to do with this man?” Zipporah asked as she again, quickly, looked over at him. His eyes were still wide and beckoned to her. It made her skin crawl.

  “My question is what does this man want with you?” Chandler took the paper from Zipporah’s grip. He looked again, that time, slower. “These are Pelzer numbers. I recognize the eight-six-four area code.”

  Zipporah couldn’t answer any of Chandler’s questions. Her need to find out more about the man was interrupted by the EMTs’ arrival into the room. They asked Zipporah and Chandler to move to the side so that they could transfer the man to the hospital.

  Jasper fought the EMTs. There were two of them and both outweighed Jasper. They had to finally restrain him. Although, legally, he had the right to refuse medical attention, that was not what he said. He just kept repeating Zipporah’s name.

  The EMTs finally began to roll Jasper out of the room. Even restrained he still tried to fight. All the while he never took his eyes off Zipporah. With tears welling up, and his breathing becoming shallower, he still twisted and turned. As they rolled the stretcher past Zipporah and Chandler, he attempted to reach out to her. He didn’t seem to care that a long needle was embedded in the hand as he raised it.

  If Zipporah saw it she didn’t react. But Chandler did see it and he did react, inwardly. He saw the birthmark on the inside of the man’s wrist. It’d been a quick glimpse but he had no doubt it was the same leaf shape as Zipporah’s.

  Chandler, normally cool under practically any situation, was at a loss.

  38

  Bea barged back into her suite with her fists balled and the arch in her back almost straightened. She hadn’t remembered leaving her hotel room door ajar when she’d left. If Jasper was up she was gonna knock him back out. There was no way she was going to let him mess up Zipporah’s life.

  Sasha followed behind Bea with her cane raised. The two old women had left Sister Betty mentally whipped in her room and had headed back to Bea’s.

  Of course, Sasha had only returned with Bea to make sure that there wasn’t anything happening between Bea and Jasper. She didn’t care if Jasper was on his last legs, the Jasper she’d known for years would still try something.

  The last thing Sasha and Bea expected to find in the room was security guards.

  The last thing the security guards expected to find was two old women barreling through the hotel room door and commencing to whittle away at their manhood with nothing more than a pair of fists and a cane.

  The noise brought some of the other hotel visitors on the same floor rushing from their rooms to see what was going on. It was the middle of the night and although Las Vegas was a city that never slept, they’d wanted to.

  The two security guards, both well built and most certainly taller than Bea and Sasha, stood glued to a wall. Their uniforms were in tatters and one wore his flashlight dangling between his legs instead of from his belt. The other man looked as though someone had painted his lips with purple lipstick. Sasha had taken her cane and whacked him across the mouth each time he’d hollered, “Stop.” Perhaps if he’d said, “please,” she wouldn’t have hit him so hard.

  Chattering started almost immediately throughout the crowd of onlookers. Several had recognized Bea and Sasha from the day they’d arrived. So with cell phone cameras clicking away, it appeared that poor actresses Mother Love and Irma P. Hall would become innocent and mistaken fodder for the tabloids once again.

  It took some time before the security guards were able to walk upright out of Bea’s hotel room. They even apologized for doing their duty, hoping that the two old women wouldn’t tell everything that had happened. As for Bea and Sasha, they completely forgot about finding Jasper. They were momentarily content to sign autographs for some of the onlookers.

  “I knew I should’ve worn my shades,” Bea complained after signing the last autograph and collapsing into a chair.

  “Oh, you looked fine,” Sasha complimented and smiled. “How did I look?”

  “Like the little Smurf you are,” Bea teased.

  “And you looked like an energizer raisin,” Sasha said with a wide grin. She didn’t try to hide her snide remark behind an apology. She left it for what it was.

  “I’m surprised none of tha
t racket woke up Jasper,” Sasha added as she looked around the living room. “Where is his dying, cheating behind? Do you think he called security?”

  “Wait a minute!” Bea hopped around like her butt was on fire. “I left him on this sofa.”

  “What sofa?” Sasha asked. She certainly didn’t see him stretched out on the one she sat on.

  “Oh, ham and cheese,” Bea hollered.

  “Oh, hell no!” Sasha didn’t try to mince words.

  They were so scared they even looked under the sofa, which was only about two inches off the floor.

  “Are you two looking for something?”

  They hadn’t realized they hadn’t closed the door completely. It wasn’t quite morning yet and there was Chandler standing in the doorway.

  “Can’t two old women get some exercise in peace?” Bea complained as she struggled to stand.

  “One, two, and three . . .” Sasha counted as she swung her tiny arms side-to-side. “Four, five, and six.” She continued as she, too, struggled to get up. “That’s enough for me, Bea. I’m going back to my room and shower. All this exercising has made me sweaty.”

  “Chandler,” Bea said with indignation, as she realized that their charade wasn’t working, “what are you doing here at this unearthly hour?”

  Standing in the doorway, Chandler folded his arms across his chest. He took a couple of steps forward. “Jasper Epps sent me.”

  39

  Zipporah paced around her hotel room suite. She’d gone from room to room and still hadn’t calmed down. She looked at her watch. It was almost five o’clock in the morning. It was much too early to call anyone.

  She’d promised Chandler, when he’d brought her back to her suite, that she’d try to relax. It took her another ten minutes to convince herself that she hadn’t dreamt the whole thing up. Holding a cup of hot tea, she willed herself to sit. With every bit of concentration she could muster, she willed her mind to recall as much of her life as possible.

  Zipporah remembered bits and pieces of what she’d always called a drifting childhood. She’d lived in the Amsterdam, New York, foster care system for most of her youth. The town was small back then and was mostly a Slavic community. She’d stood out like a sore thumb, being one of a few blacks living there. She stayed with a white family that kept several foster children of all nationalities. They were a kindly middle-aged couple named Doug and Mae Teabout. They lived on Main Street in a huge house opposite the Mohawk River.

  But the happy home wasn’t always happy. Mr. Teabout worked long hours running a furniture store downtown. Mrs. Teabout did her charity work and accepted the praises for “taking in the orphans,” six days out of the week. On the seventh day, when God ordered folks to rest, Mrs. Teabout drank. It was the town’s secret that everyone knew and ignored. Even when the foster children started showing signs of abuse on the days she drank, the town people ignored it. After all, some would say, “She’s taking care of kids nobody wanted. So what if she drank a little. Those brats probably deserved every beating they got.”

  Zipporah ran away when she was thirteen. She was picked up walking along the highway and promptly placed in another system-run house in Scotia, New York. Same situation except it was a children’s shelter. That only meant that she didn’t get whipped as much because it would take time to get around to her. She wasn’t a bad child. If anything she was a bookworm who sang herself to sleep. By the time she was fifteen, Zipporah had discovered that she could sing herself out of most situations.

  If things weren’t going well in whatever home she was placed in, Zipporah sang. She soon became a showcase. She’d sing at the church, she’d sing at the school, she’d even sing in the shower and in the front and back yards. The foster parent du jour would drag her through many talent shows to win a few dollars, none of which she ever got to keep.

  As a teen, Zipporah still didn’t know anything about her parents but was told by every foster parent she’d stayed with that her birth mother died, from a difficult labor, when Zipporah was born. “Your mother never had a chance to lay eyes on you.” She’d heard the story so often until she thought she was the blame.

  While the Las Vegas sun rose, Zipporah’s mind fought to retrieve some tidbit or detail to make sense of what was happening in her life. She finally dozed off with the strange man’s belongings resting in her lap. Zipporah wasn’t aware that what she sought was right there. Right there in her lap.

  With the demonic twins gone Sister Betty had finally dozed off. She hadn’t quite made it to the bed. Right on the sofa, with her feet up and resting on the coffee table, and her head thrown back with her mouth gaped and snoring, she’d slept. A damp towel covered her forehead. The towel had only cooled down her head but as usual had done nothing for the headache.

  Her suite looked a mess. There were empty tea cups and candy wrappers strewn around. After she’d tossed Bea and Sasha out, she’d acted as though she’d finally lost her mind. It wasn’t an act. She’d drunk more hot cayenne pepper tea and gorged on the expensive chocolate candy bars from the minibar. All the concoction did was make her edgier and send her to the bathroom, several times. By the time she’d gotten her wits together she was exhausted and collapsed on the sofa.

  It took Sister Betty a few seconds to come out of her self-induced coma. She still felt as though she’d just closed her eyes. The knocking on the door and the ringing of the telephone, at the same time, just didn’t seem real. She leaned forward and almost broke her legs from doing so. She’d forgotten her legs were resting on the coffee table because they’d fallen completely asleep, even if she hadn’t.

  “Come back later,” she yelled. Sister Betty didn’t want to see a maid or anyone. She started rubbing her legs trying to get the blood to cooperate but the knocking persisted. “I said I don’t need my room cleaned now!” That was her first lie of the day.

  “It’s me, Godmother.” Chandler rapped harder on the door. “I need to speak with you now!”

  The sound of Chandler’s voice brought Sister Betty completely around. By then the blood flow had returned to her legs and the telephone had stopped ringing. She looked over and saw the little flashing red light and decided she’d check the message later. “Hold on, June Bug.”

  Chandler showing up at her door was a ray of sunshine to Sister Betty. He was probably the only person in Las Vegas who could make her feel better. She walked to the door hoping that whatever happened earlier in her room was just a dream.

  Sister Betty opened her door wide and found Chandler surrounded by two old nightmares.

  And that’s when Sister Betty did her Esther Rolle impression: “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Zipporah slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. It was still early but she’d hoped to speak with Sister Betty. Somehow being around that old woman gave her comfort. Perhaps, Sister Betty would return the call when she heard her message.

  Zipporah’s clothes felt clammy. They should have. She hadn’t changed or showered since the night before.

  She wrestled with whether to go through the man’s belongings or to get cleaned up. Somehow going through a stranger’s possessions didn’t feel right, so she decided she wouldn’t. She’d just return them to the front desk or whoever was in charge of such things. And, then she remembered that the man had Mother Blister’s and Mother Pray Onn’s hotel rooms and telephone numbers on the yellow sheet of paper. Knowing there was a possibility that the sick old man wasn’t totally alone suddenly gave her a little peace. She decided to shower and rest up. When Chandler returned later, she’d give him the items to give to the women.

  “Don’t even try to look innocent!” Sasha declared as she used her cane to push Chandler aside and enter Sister Betty’s suite again.

  “You’re in it, too!” Bea added her accusation and almost broke Chandler’s hip as she knocked him against the side of the door frame when she entered.

  “Heavenly Father,” Sister Betty whispered with her hands raised. “Why, Lord?” Esther Rolle was
gone and she was back.

  “Look at her,” Sasha said to Chandler, who was still glued to the entrance. “She’s trying to act like she’s got God on speed dial.”

  “That’s right,” Bea chimed in. “Just last night she was talking about murder.” She turned to Sasha and nodded for confirmation before turning back to Sister Betty. “Hypocrisy is such an ugly thing.”

  “You tell her, Bea,” Sasha said as she sashayed her tiny hips to a chair to sit. “Tell June Bug, again, what she done.”

  “I am.” Bea stopped and turned to Sister Betty and said, “I’m gonna use the bathroom, first. Make sure you don’t lie and try to make Sasha and me look bad while I’m gone.”

  Sister Betty didn’t respond. She waved Chandler in and as he closed the door, she went to the other table. She opened her pocketbook and retrieved a small plastic bottle of blessed oil.

  Suddenly, Sister Betty started squirting the oil everywhere and on everyone. She started anointing chairs, windows, the sofa, and the minibar. “I rebuke you, Satan.”

  She raced toward Sasha squirting the oil as she went. “Be gone, Devil.” Sasha started screaming like the evil witch that melted in The Wizard of Oz.

  Chandler raced over and grabbed at his godmother, and she squirted him, too. “Back up!” she yelled.

  Bea had barely gotten into the bathroom when she heard the noise and dashed back out, with her drawers still around her ankles. She couldn’t get out of the way so she received a blessed-oil drenching, as well. “Back to the pits of hell, Devil,” Sister Betty screamed as she chased Bea.

  Almost tripping, Bea dashed back toward the safety of the bathroom. By then, she’d hopped out of one of the drawers’ legs, which had twisted and was about to bring the reality of busting one’s behind to a whole new level.

  By the time Sister Betty finished, there wasn’t an oil-free spot or person in her suite, including her.

 

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