by Tony Urban
Instead, he woke up.
Vernon Costell looked around the room with confused eyes and for a fleeting moment Mina pitied him. But when he saw his daughter anger replaced the confusion and his beady, black eyes zeroed in on her like missiles. “What am I doing in the goddamn hospital?”
Mina melted into the chair and she looked at her hands in her lap rather than her father. “You went unconscious, daddy. I couldn’t wake you up.”
Vernon squirmed into the sitting position and in doing so the nasal cannula feeding oxygen into his nose pulled askew and yanked his nostrils upward like a pig snout. “You know I don’t want nothing to do with hospitals you little bitch. Don’t you got any brains left in that thick skull of yours, Birdie.”
The instant he used that name, Mina was 12 years old again. That was the first time he had called her ‘Birdie’. She was standing in the hot, cramped kitchen of their section eight apartment, her wiry hair pulled back in pigtails and she wore the bright, yellow dress she bought all on her own. It didn’t matter that it came from the thrift store or that it only cost a quarter. She picked it out and, for the very first time in her life, she felt pretty.
“Do you like my new dress, daddy?” she’d asked him.
Vernon glanced up at her as he gobbled up his food like he was afraid someone would beat him to it. “Look like one of those birdies to me. Ones that peck the nigger seed off the flowers in the fall.”
Layla, her younger sister by less than a year, burst out laughing, spraying a mouthful of mashed potatoes in the process. That made Vernon cackle. He pointed at Mina. “Don’t she look like a birdie? Skinny little legs? Big, beaky nose?”
Layla flapped her arms. “Mina’s a birdie! Tweet, tweet!”
Seeking an ally, Mina turned to her mother who washed dishes by hand at the sink. But her mother kept her head down and her mouth shut. Something Mina too learned to do all too well in time.
Even though Mina never wore the yellow dress again, Vernon called her Birdie often after that day, especially when he wanted to hurt her. Through the years, he hurt her a lot. Sometimes with his hands, like when he slapped her so hard that his wedding band broke her front tooth in half. Sometimes with his feet, like the time she missed her curfew by six minutes and he told her she was a cock-sucking whore who needed to mind her place. That night he shoved her onto the floor then kicked her over and over again with his heavy work boot clad feet until she managed to crawl under the kitchen table. She passed blood for almost a week after. But, for a girl with a name as beautiful as Wilhelmina, all the beatings put together didn’t cause her as much pain as being called “Birdie”.
Layla got pregnant when she was 13, knocked up by the maintenance man who spent too much time making repairs in their apartment. He married her but they both died in a car wreck before the baby could even be born. A couple years later their mother died of a brain bleed supposedly caused by falling down the steps but more likely caused by Vernon’s fists. Mina envied both of them because they got out.
When Vernon was 49 and digging out a drainage ditch for the city, he suffered a major stroke. His left side was useless, but he still had his right to keep her in line. His disability insurance barely made ends meet so Mina, who was then 17 and had dreams of being a nurse or a teacher, got hired on as a chambermaid for a local hotel and spent the best years of her life cleaning up other people’s messes.
If anything, the stroke made her daddy meaner. It was easier to slip out of the way of his fists, but he had other ways of punishing her. His favorite trick was soiling his pants on purpose, even though he was perfectly capable of using the walker and going to the bathroom on his own.
“Birdie! Get in here and clean my ass!” he’d holler.
The first time Mina had to wash the putrid shit out of his crack and off his shriveled balls she threw up. Vernon heard her retching and cackled like a hyena. That wasn’t the last time he’d made her puke, but it was the last time she let him hear her.
All told it had been 39 years of cruelty and on more days than not Mina just hoped that one of them would wake up dead. She didn’t even care much which one, she just wanted it to end.
Vernon reached over with his hand and slapped her thigh hard.
“Quit your wool gatherin’ and fix this fucking tube--”
Mina glanced at him, saw his piggish nostrils flared and his eyes wide. His entire body tensed and then went into a violent spasm that seemed like it would never end. But it did and then he collapsed backward. It took her a moment to react, she just stared into his eyes. When his pupils dilated, she snapped out of her daze. She rushed to the door and leaned into the hospital hallway. “I think my daddy just died!”
12
Bundy owned, what he considered to be, an admirable collection of firearms. From rare long guns like an 1892 Winchester Saddle Ring Carbine 25-20 Caliber and a Springfield Model 1842 Percussion Musket to small arms such as a U.S. Simeon North Flintlock Pistol Model 1816 and a Colt Model 1860 Army Revolver.
He’d fired all of them at least once. Guns were more than his hobby. Guns were his way of life. So when a friend of a friend of a shooting buddy offered him a chance to buy a genuine, fully automatic Hellpup AK-47, he wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass him by. The fact that buying said gun was illegal didn’t bother him that much. Bundy had no plans to rob a bank or shoot up a school. He wanted to own it just because.
He met with Jim, the seller, outside what Jim said was his favorite bar, a street-side dive named Mel’s which promised Good Eats, Good Company and Unlimited Wings every Friday. Bundy liked wings and thought he might take them up on the offer after their transaction was complete. Jim was an intense, bearded fellow who looked like he’d seen some time in combat. Bundy handed him 500 dollars in twenties but Jim didn’t hand him the Hellpup. Instead, he arrested him. Bundy never even got to touch the gun. Or try the wings.
His real name was Rudolph Polakowski but ever since Hulk Hogan squared off against King Kong Bundy in Wrestlemania 2, everyone had called him Bundy. And that was fine. It certainly beat Lardass or Wide Load or Porkbeast, or any of the other taunts that had been hurled his way since the first grade. He was a large boy who grew into a mountain of a man.
Bundy stood 6 feet 7 inches tall. He was far too large for regular scales and once he thought it would be amusing to step onto one of the truck weighing stations they had out front of the scrap yard. He was about 440 then, but that was thirty years ago when he was still growing. He now considered his weight to be indeterminate. After the arrest and conviction, Rudolph Polakowski became Inmate 2089349. He still preferred Bundy.
He’d been a guest at SCI Pittsburgh for about two months when the prison physician discovered the lump on his testicle during an otherwise routine physical. Bundy had wondered why the nervous, little man was spending so much time fondling his junk, and after the doc finally told him to pull up his pants, he broke the news.
Bundy wasn’t too worried. After all, he had two balls so losing one wasn’t anything to lose sleep over. Normally a van would have taken Bundy and the other seven prisoners needing medical care to the hospital, but due to his extra-extra-extra-large frame, a bus was procured instead.
Around noon they traded their cells for the police blue prison bus. Just in case anyone might confuse it with a school or public transit bus, “Department of Corrections” was stenciled on the front, back, and both sides in bold, white lettering.
The day was already hot and the heat bounced off the pavement in shimmery, rainbow-colored waves. Bundy was sweating through his orange prison jumpsuit before he even stepped onto the bus. His uniform was the biggest size they made but the zippered front still threatened to burst. He and the other inmates were handcuffed, and the cuffs attached to belly chains. Bundy required two chains to be locked together to fit around his waist. The restraints gave his hands about five inches of movement in any given direction.
Bundy only recognized one of the other inmates, a beanpole eve
ryone called Cob because he didn’t just eat the corn, he chewed on the cob until it disappeared. Probably why he’s going to the hospital, Bundy thought. That can’t be healthy.
The rest of the group was hacking like they had whooping cough. It seemed like almost everyone in the prison was sick. According to the lifers that was normal. “One gets sick; we all get sick,” they said. But these six were particularly ill.
Two guards chaperoned the inmates. Errickson, the younger of the two suffered from little man syndrome with bodybuilder arms and no visible fat. He sported a high and tight, nerd glasses, and a bad attitude. He stood beside the bus door and was all too eager to herd them on. “Squeeze your fat ass in there, Bundy,” Errickson ordered, “If it’ll fit through the door, that is.”
Bundy ambled along in no particular hurry. “I’m coming, Boss. Don’t work yourself up.”
Errickson scowled and rested his hand on his utility belt which contained his collapsible baton, taser, and pepper spray. Bundy held his handcuffed hands up before him to mime surrender. “Don’t taze me, bro.”
Bundy chuckled. Errickson didn’t.
The bus sagged down when Bundy stepped aboard and the old metal creaked as he climbed the two steps and moved toward the seats. The other guard, Allebach, was pushing fifty and much more relaxed than his young partner.
“You good?” Allebach asked as Bundy moved sideways through the narrow aisle.
“Sure thing, Boss.”
Bundy was the last prisoner on. The rest sat side by side, cuffed together in pairs. Bundy got his own seat. Being huge had its advantages.
Allebach took a seat at the back of the bus while Errickson stood watch at the front. The driver, a wheezy, old fart who looked like he should have retired a decade ago looked over his shoulder to his passengers. “That everyone?”
Errickson nodded. “Hit the road, pop.”
Bundy couldn’t see the driver, but he suspected the man sneered. He certainly would have.
13
Juli Villareal chain-smoked Camels as she sat in front of the gigantic LCD screen and watched Donald in the Kitchen on the Home Shopping Channel. She didn’t care if Donald was going gray, getting soft around the middle and queerer than Elton John. On days like today he was her whole world.
“And if six inches isn’t enough, we also have an eight for those of you who appreciate a few extra inches,” Donald said with a smile and a wink. “And don’t even get me started on the 10 inch! Oh, lordy!”
Juli laughed out loud. LOLed as she thought her kids would say, only they wouldn’t actually say that of course. Oh, that Donald was so naughty sometimes. She grabbed the phone and punched in the HSC number without even looking. It rang twice.
“Thank you for calling the Home Shopping Channel. How may we brighten your day?”
“I was calling about the Venice Cookware Donald’s selling.”
“Oh, yes, Ma’am. Would you like to place an order?”
“Actually, I already own a set. I thought maybe I could give a testimonial on the air.”
Juli had given two live testimonials in the past and both times she got so excited that she thought she might pee her pants. Donald talked to her on the air and thanked her for her call. It was Heavenly.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we already have two other callers waiting to share their experiences with the product. Are you sure you don’t need another set? These just became available in McIntosh red.”
Juli’s eyes widened. Her pans were boring silver. McIntosh red? That was too good to pass up.
“Yes, I would!”
She rattled off her name, and the salesman pulled up her account. Juli Villareal was a superb customer at HSC and they had all her info on file.
She hadn’t always been a shopaholic. From ages 22 to 36 she was a blissfully happy stay at home mother and a darned good one. Everyone said so. Her twins, Matt and Marcy, were everything she could have ever wanted. And her husband, Mark, was the type of man every girl grew up wanting to marry. He was handsome and kind and a good provider. He’d been the top salesman at Evergreen Insurance for 12 years running. It was the perfect upper middle class life. Until it wasn’t.
Four years ago she was trying to find a video of Marcy’s dance solo on Mark’s iPhone when she uncovered a clip of a young, blonde woman with enormous breasts treating a penis like it was a lollipop. There was a perfect, round mole at the base of the penis. A mole that was much too familiar for Juli mistake.
When Juli confronted him with the video, Mark admitted the affair. The blonde with the big boobs was his colleague. He promised to end it and Juli believed he had. He even transferred to another office to ease Juli’s mind. It helped, to some extent, but their marriage was like a piece of china that someone dropped and glued back together. It seemed fine from a distance, but if examined up close, you could see the cracks that would never go away.
Juli kept herself busy being the best mother she could be. She never missed a soccer match, dance recital, awards ceremony, or little league game. She chaperoned school trips and volunteered for the PTA. She took the twins to the mall and the movies and amusement parks.
They were best friends - the three musketeers. Until they weren’t.
About the time the twins started their journey through puberty, their desire to hang out with their mother faded like a bright cloth left out too long in the sun. Marcy was the first. She needed a new dress for the Christmas Pageant and Juli was excited to take her shopping, but Marcy said she’d rather have her friends go with her to pick it out. It was a throwaway remark, and the girl didn’t mean to hurt her mother’s feelings, but to Juli it was like someone had chopped off her left arm.
About a year later she surprised Matt with tickets to see the new Transformers movie in Imax on opening night. She’d bought them weeks in advance and she wasn’t even sure what Imax was but it sounded exciting. Only, when she handed the tickets to Matt, he said he was too old to go to the movies with his mom. He must have seen the pain wash over her and quickly said they could still go ‘this time’, but the damage was done.
Her family didn’t need her any more, but at least she had Donald in the Kitchen. Her brand new set of McIntosh red cookware only cost her $139.99 and they even split it into four easy payments. Life wasn’t so bad after all.
The front door banged open. Matt walked in, talking into his cell phone. “I can’t tonight. I have practice at 6.”
Juli looked toward him hoping for a ‘Hi mom’ but didn’t even garner a nod.
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah, we’ll go this weekend. I promise. Uh huh. Love you too.” He tossed down his book bag beside the door and kicked off his Nikes.
“Hello, Matt.”
He glanced at his mother. “Oh. Hi.”
The boy was tall like his father and even more handsome. His blue eyes stood out against his olive skin and patches of black stubble grew on his cleft chin making him look more like a 20-year-old than his true age of 15.
“Was that Laura?”
His brow furrowed. “No. Elise. I broke up with Laura a month ago. Jesus!”
“Sorry. Sorry. Don’t bite my head off.”
He looked to the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”
Despite a kitchen filled with high quality cookware and gadgets, Juli hadn’t given it much thought. She considered the options. “There’s some lasagna in the freezer. I’ll heat it up.”
“We had lasagna last week!”
“That’s why they’re called leftovers, my son. They won’t kill you.”
“Whatever.”
He sneezed twice without covering his mouth, spraying spittle over the granite countertops.
“Bless you.”
Matt stomped up the stairs to his room and Juli heard the door slam shut. She climbed off the couch, grabbed a paper towel and wiped off the counter.
I wonder if he’s got that bug that Marcy has, she thought. Marcy had woken up that morning coughing and sneezing almost non-stop. Juli offered to t
ake her to the doctor but Marcy only glared, took a Sudafed and said, ‘I’m fine!’ before fleeing the house like she was making a jailbreak.
There was so much love in the Villareal household, Juli almost couldn’t bear it.
14
It was a quarter of one in the afternoon and the boy who cut Emory Prescott’s lawn should have been there by noon. Emory paced back and forth on the porch, casting frequent, furtive glances toward the long, bricked driveway. He kept expecting to discover him, but kept ending up disappointed. Christopher, the boy, was ordinarily quite timely and had not been late once in the two summers he’d been under Emory’s employ. The old man was getting anxious.
He wasn’t worried about the lawn. Spring had been dry and the grass had grown less than an inch from the week prior. Emory was upset because he’d become fond of the boy and his visits. Sometimes he didn’t even bother Christopher to take the mower out of the garage, they would simply sit on the big porch and sip sun tea and chat.
It was an odd pair that was for certain. Emory was 78 years old but his trim build and good health made him appear at least a decade younger. Christopher was more than 60 years his junior. He wore his pants so low that his boxer shorts showed and Emory took more than a little enjoyment watching his nebby neighbors stare as the boy strutted about.
Emory had always hated Fox Chapel, with all its bankers and lawyers and local pseudo celebrities. He only moved there at the demand of Grant, his partner of almost 30 years, who pleaded that he wanted to live in a “good section of the city” after growing up poor and scared in the Hill District. Emory obliged but always resented him for it.
Grant was 12 years his junior. When they met, he was a dance major at the city’s premier arts school. Emory saw him for the first time when he was at the school to give away some of his family’s money. As the superintendent gushed over his generous donation, Emory’s attention wandered and he caught sight of the 19-year-old beauty as he twirled and floated across the stage during rehearsal.
