Don't Turn Around

by Hunter Morgan

  But Adam’s father had been insistent that all efforts be made to sustain life, no matter how feeble that life might be. Last night, they had had a tense discussion on the phone; his parents were now in Budapest.

  Adam had tactfully tried to suggest that perhaps his grandfather’s status should be reevaluated. If there was no chance of recovery, of him ever waking up, perhaps it was time to look at other options. What he had not said was that he thought they should just pull the plug on the ventilator. He knew better than to come right out and say it. His father, Adam Thomas Preston Jr., was a man of euphemisms. He was a soft man, a man who avoided not only confrontation, but the making of decisions, at almost any cost.

  It was that weakness in his father that Adam had come to despise over the years. Preston Junior had never been the man his father had been. Perhaps that was why it was so important to Adam that he live up to the Preston name, that he make his grandfather proud.

  His jaw clenched, Adam looked down and smoothed the pristine white sheet that had been folded neatly beneath his grandfather’s chin. If it were up to Adam, he would not let him suffer this way.

  But, the decision was not his to make, and no matter how much it pained him, Adam had no choice but to wait and watch as this great man wasted away.

  Lying on his back on the narrow bunk, Maury munched on the Snickers bar he’d gotten from one of the vending machines at mail call. Lights were out and it was pretty quiet on tier D. One of his roommates had escaped today, so there were only five of them in the room tonight. Carlos apparently had clocked in at his landscaping job, clocked out at the end of the day, and walked away. He wasn’t the brightest kid, so everyone was taking bets as to how long it would be before he’d be back. Stupid thing was, he had less than three months to serve. When they caught him—and they would—he’d do a nine-month mandatory in prison whites for the prison break, and then he would still have to serve the last three months on his old charge.

  Maury took another tiny bite of the candy bar. He always tried to make it last. Draw the pleasure out of it.

  He’d gotten mail from Danni again today and a newspaper clipping from the local Police Beat. This one was about a carjacking. A young woman had been attacked, her car stolen on her way home from seeing her dying mother in the hospital. The girl hadn’t been hurt. According to the paper, it was the third carjacking in the last month, but the only one in which the car was found locally. Odd.

  The carjacking was in bad taste, really.

  Maury was worried about Danni. What kind of person carjacked a young woman on her way home from the hospital where her cancer-ridden mother was rotting away? There was a side note in the article stating that some local church was taking up a collection to aid the victim and her younger sisters…to help them have a brighter Christmas.

  Maury wished he had enough money to send the girls something, but most of his money was still being banked for legal fees.

  The chocolate in the Snickers was creamy. The nuts crunchy. The patterns of texture in each bite were totally unpredictable. He was enjoying it tremendously.

  He thought about Danni again. What was he up to? Surely he hadn’t jacked all three cars. Not in a month. That would be too dangerous. And Danni didn’t fit the carjacking profile.

  So what was he up to? The B&E; the robbery of the mini-mart, where he shot the boy in the balls; the carjacking…

  Odd. Very odd. And a little disconcerting.

  Maury wondered if Danni was a nut. If he was, it wasn’t safe for Maury to associate with him. Not in any way. Not and jeopardize his own future.

  But Danni didn’t strike him as a nut job. So what was he?

  It was a very interesting question.

  Casey checked her watch on her way upstairs. Frazier bounded playfully after her. She had enough time to retrieve the Christmas boxes before going outside to meet the van that would bring her father home. She felt guilty for having waited so long to put up the tree that had been delivered from the nursery Friday afternoon, but tonight was the night.

  Last night Lincoln had helped her lug the heavy, balled tree into the living room, and it was now standing bare, but proud, on the opposite side of the fireplace from the TV. Lincoln was coming over for homemade vegetable soup, and they and Ed were going to trim the tree.

  At the end of the hall, Casey entered the access door to the attic of the Cape Cod. The dog followed curiously. She flipped the switch, and the bare bulbs screwed into utilitarian sockets illuminated the eaves. She rested her hands on her hips as she gazed over the maze of stocked boxes, plastic containers, and furniture. Frazier whined and slid his bottom to the floor as if he was suggesting he was there to support her, despite the obviously daunting task ahead.

  When Casey and Jayne had sold their parents’ house, they had sold or donated most of their parents’ belongings, but there were some items neither had been able to part with. There were an antique couch, some rosewood tables, English china, and books. Boxes of books. Even some first editions. Because Jayne’s house was already so cluttered, her attic and garage already packed, Casey had agreed to store the things until they came up with a better solution.

  When the movers had delivered her parents’ belongings, Casey had been so distracted by dealing with her father and getting him settled into the house that she had told them to set the stuff anywhere in the attic. Now, staring at the mess, she wished she had had more forethought. She had no idea where her Christmas boxes were. Nothing looked the same as it had six months ago. Everything had been moved or shifted.

  But she was no grinch and Christmas could not be halted, or even slowed, by a few misplaced boxes. Grabbing her flashlight out of her back pocket, she scooted between a stack of boxes and a chair draped in a flowered sheet. Frazier followed.

  “Okay, boy,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “Clear boxes, red and green snap tops. Fetch, boy. Fetch.”

  Ed shuffled down the sidewalk studying the line of white vans. Old farts were climbing aboard for the ride home. One of the vans was his; the one with the driver with the long nose hairs. That was the van that would take him home to Joe Frazier.

  People pushed past him. Bumped into him. An ambulance with spinning lights and a loud siren had just carried someone off. She had fallen at the front door; she was probably dead. She had looked dead to him when he had stepped over her.

  Everything was a mass of confusion on the sidewalk now. Loud noises, people hurrying…like they could get away from the woman who had croaked and cheat death, somehow. Ed knew better. When it came, it came.

  There were cars parked erratically at the curb and the buses didn’t seem to be in the right order. Not like usual. Ed liked things the same way. On TV, channels were always the same, always in the same order. It made them easier to find. He remembered that one of the white vans had moved to make room for the ambulance and the guys in the truck with the medical kits. Para-matics, he thought they were called. It was a word something like that.

  It was cold out and Ed pulled the collar of his coat together. It was windy. He wished he’d worn his hat with the fuzzy earflaps. They were made of fur. Some kind of animal, but he couldn’t remember which right this minute. Didn’t really matter what animal had died to give him warm earflaps because he’d left the hat on the shelf in the laundry room.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked to the next van. The driver looked fourteen and had pimples all over his face. That wasn’t the right van.

  Feeling something wet on his face, he looked up at the sky. Snowflakes? The only other sound’s the sweep of easy wind and downy flake. The words drifted in his head. Robert Frost. The forecast had called for a winter mix later tonight, but no snow. Ed liked snow. He lifted his chin toward the sky with delight and watched as the glittering flakes drifted downward from Jesus. One hit him on the end of the nose and he laughed. He stuck out his tongue. The snow was cold and tingly.

  “Ed?”

  Ed tilted his head forward. There was a man
standing next to a blue car. A stranger. “Hey, Ed. There you are. I was looking all over for you.”

  Ed stared at him. He didn’t remember the guy, but the guy knew him. That happened to Ed a lot these days. It was embarrassing. Getting old was hell. Getting old and crazy was worse. Like being caught in Dante’s Ninth Circle when you hadn’t even committed the sin.

  “Casey sent me to pick you up.”

  Ed still didn’t say anything. He was suspicious. He was supposed to ride the bus. Casey said she would see him when he got off the bus.

  “You are Ed McDaniel, right?”

  Ed looked back toward the “old farts’ center.” They called it the Modern Maturity Center, but he knew better. It wasn’t a place for modern, mature people. It was where the young people parked the old farts during the day so they could go to work.

  The sidewalk was beginning to clear. White vans were pulling out. What if he had missed his van? He didn’t always remember the address at the house. It was confusing. Numbers similar to his house in Maryland, but not the same. It would have been easier if the numbers were the same. He looked back at the stranger.

  “Ed?” the man said.

  Ed nodded.

  “Come on, man. Jump in.”

  The guy was wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood up. He had his hands stuffed in his jeans and he looked cold.

  “You know Casey?” Ed questioned.

  “Sure. We work together. Remember?” The guy opened the car door. It squeaked loud like it was going to fall off. Ed wondered why Casey would send someone from work in a car with a squeaky door.

  “Come on, Ed.” The man had his hands in his pockets again. “It’s cold out here. Let’s get you home.”

  Ed took one last look down the sidewalk. The last van was pulling out. He got into the car. The man closed his door.

  Ed struggled to get his seat belt on as Casey’s friend from work got in the other side. The buckle wouldn’t reach. Ed let it go and then tried to pull it across his lap again. A car like this, you couldn’t be too careful.

  “Need some help?” The man took the buckle from Ed and pushed it into the slot. It clicked.

  Ed tugged on the belt to be sure it was secure.

  Casey’s friend didn’t buckle his. They pulled out, fishtailing a little at the exit.

  Ed pushed his hands down on the seat trying to steady himself as they went around the corner. Damned young folks. All crazy drivers.

  Ed stared straight ahead. Snowflakes hit the windshield and flattened into little wet puddles. The man turned on the wipers, which whisked them away. Ed watched as they passed houses. A mini-mart. Some things looked familiar. Sort of. But nowadays, everything looked the same, didn’t it? A mini-mart on every corner?

  They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. The windshield wipers clicked as they went back and forth. The defrost fan hummed.

  Ed saw fields now, but they hadn’t passed the pizza place. When Casey drove home, they usually passed the pizza place. But it was dark out now; things never looked the same in the dark. He looked at Casey’s friend.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Told you. I’m takin’ you home.”

  Ed looked out the windshield again. Even though it was dark, he was pretty sure this wasn’t the right way. He didn’t want to be in this car. He wanted to ride home in the van. That, or he wanted to drive himself.

  Ed missed driving. Jayne and Casey said he wasn’t allowed to drive anymore, just because he got lost a couple times in all that crazy traffic in College Park, but Ed still had his license. He’d hidden it from them and said he’d lost it. Maybe tomorrow he would drive to the old farts’ place.

  He glanced at Casey’s friend again and rested his hand on the seat belt buckle. It was cold. His hands were cold. His ears were cold. He wished he had the animal fur hat.

  The car was going faster. The road was slippery. Ed could see the slush from the wet snow on the pavement. It wasn’t safe to drive this fast.

  “What did you say your name was?” Ed asked.

  “Ronnie. Ronnie Reagan.” The man grinned.

  Ed started to feel all prickly inside and he didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. His heart was beating a little faster. “This isn’t the way.”

  “How would you know? You can barely find your way to the shit house.”

  Ed’s lower lip trembled. He looked quickly at the man and then back at the road again. He did look a little bit like Ronald Reagan. But Reagan never wore a hooded sweatshirt.

  “I want to get out of the car.”

  “Why would you want to do that, Ed? I’m taking you home. Remember? Or did you forget already? Casey says you’re a forgetful man. Actually, she says you’re a pain in the ass.”

  Ed was cold before, but now he was hot. Sweaty in his green sweater and overcoat. He could feel his armpits getting wet. He hated sweaty armpits. Lorraine would never tolerate a man with body odor.

  Ed swallowed hard and looked at Ronald Reagan in the hooded sweatshirt. “I want to get out of the car.”

  Ronald Reagan hit the gas and the car slid one way and then the other, picking up speed. “So go ahead. Get out, Ed.”

  Casey located two of the five Christmas boxes and lugged one down the stairs and then the other. As she set down the second box, she checked her watch. “Shoot. We almost forgot Dad, Frazier! Let’s go get Ed.”

  The dog followed Casey into the laundry room, where she put on her coat and hat. They went out into the yard through the garage. Fortunately, the van was late. Casey looked up at the sprinkling of snowflakes falling from the dark sky. The roads were wet; the driver was probably taking his time.

  Frazier ran over to the nearest bush and lifted his leg. Casey wandered down the driveway, spotting a Coke can on the front lawn. Better than a beer bottle. Done with his business, Frazier raced around the front yard.

  “Pretty spry, for such an old man,” she called to the dog. She picked up the soda can and a gum wrapper. On her way toward the green trash barrel beside the house, she spotted a plastic bag caught in an azalea bush.

  Casey picked up a half dozen pieces of trash and then got the tennis ball off the front porch and threw it to Frazier a couple of times. Eventually, he tired of playing fetch and lay down in the driveway. Casey checked her watch again. Her father was now a half hour late. She went into the house to check her voice mail on her cell and the house phone. No message from the senior center.

  She went back out through the garage. Frazier had moved into the garage and lay down again, staring down the driveway, his head resting between his paws. Casey was beginning to get worried. She walked down the driveway, then up again. It was cold out. The snow had stopped.

  She went into the house and dialed the senior center. The elderly woman who answered the phone said there had been a slight delay in the van departure. She told Casey not to worry, that it was snowing out. Her father would be along soon.

  Casey waited fifteen more minutes and then called back, asking Mrs. Polaski, the evening receptionist, to contact the van driver and see how late he was running. Casey was concerned that the van had broken down. If it had, she would just go meet it and get her father. She knew sitting in a van beside the road would irritate him.

  Mrs. Polaski called back ten minutes later. Casey was standing in front of the living room window. Frazier waited by the front door. Mrs. Polaski confirmed that her father had been there all day, but said that the van driver had already completed his route and had just returned the van. According to the bus driver, Casey’s father hadn’t taken the van home.

  “You’re sure he was there?” Casey asked, gripping the phone, her heart pounding.

  “All day,” Mrs. Polaski said, seemingly annoyed. “I saw him go out the door this afternoon myself after he signed out. Nice-looking man, your father. Very dapper.”

  “So he was there all day, signed out at the front desk, left the building, but didn’t get in the van? And he didn’t get on the wrong van?
” Casey questioned.

  “All of the vans are accounted for. No one’s seen your father since he left here, Miss McDaniel. You sure he didn’t go home with a friend?”

  “He doesn’t have any friends.” Casey hung up and dialed the police.

  Ed stared at Ronald Reagan for a minute. He was scared, but he was angry, too. Casey’s friend wasn’t very nice. Certainly not very presidential.

  “What? You don’t want to jump?” the guy cackled.

  Ed covered the seat belt buckle with his hand and slowly lifted it. “I want you to stop the car.”

  “And I want your daughter to lay off.”

  “Lay off what?” Ed said it loud enough so that Ronald Reagan couldn’t hear the seat belt buckle unlock.

  “Casey knows.”

  Ed didn’t like the way he said it. He didn’t like the way he said her name. He wondered if this Ronald Reagan was friends with Richard Nixon, who stood in the flower beds sometimes. He didn’t like either of them. He rested his right hand on the door handle and checked to be sure it was unlocked. “Stop the car and let me out.”

  “Told you—you want out, you’ll have to jump.”

  In Ed’s lifetime, he hadn’t been forced to make many split-second decisions, but in his heart, he knew he had to now. He just hoped he wasn’t going to break any bones.

  As the car went into a curve in the road, Ronald Reagan decelerated. Ed pulled on the door handle and pushed with his elbow. The man behind the wheel yelled, shooting his hand out to catch Ed.

  But Ed was too fast for him. Too smart. Ed threw himself out of the seat, pushing his right arm back so he wouldn’t get caught up in the seat belt strap. His shoulder hit first, then his face. Mostly his chin. He slid in the wet, crackly grass, the toes of his shoes dragging on the edge of the road and then through the gravel.

  As he hit, he tried to roll in a ball the way John Wayne did when he jumped off his horse, but it didn’t work all that well.