The waitress arrived and interrupted Doc’s flow. He ordered pork chops and mashed potatoes, while Jack chose the sirloin steak and French fries. They agreed to share a bowl of turnip greens as a gesture to healthy living, and cemented the gesture with two beers.
Jack finished his meal first and laid his knife and fork on the plate. He looked around the diner. They were the last of the customers and the waitress and cook were now sitting at the counter drinking coffee, no doubt waiting for them to leave.
‘It’s a good job only one of us here has blue eyes, Doc. The people of Lebanon get suspicious of men with blue eyes gathering together. In fact they hang them.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’ve never heard of the Blue Eyed Six?’
‘No,’ Doc replied, ‘Only the Brown Eyed Girl – a song from the sixties,’ he added, when he saw Jack looking perplexed. ‘Who were they?’
‘Six men who took out an insurance policy on the life of a hobo. It was supposedly one of those win–win situations: they’d look after him while he was alive, feed and clothe him and the like, and then collect on the policy when he was dead. The only fly in the ointment was that within the year the guy was dead – supposedly fell off a plank and drowned in the creek. At first, his death was ruled an accident, but then the son-in-law of one of the six stepped forward and said that he’d seen the man being drowned. Even though only two of them were alleged to have carried out the killing, all six were charged with first degree murder. Reporters from all over the world came to cover the trial, and one of them noticed that all six defendants had piercing blue eyes – hence the Blue Eyed Six. Apparently, 1879 was a slow year for news.’
Ostensibly satisfied with his explanation, Jack ended the story there. Doc, however, was left hanging.
‘So what happened? Were they found guilty?’
‘Yes, and even though it came out in the trial that the son-in-law was a deserter from the army and had caught his wife having an affair with one of the accused, the jury still found them guilty. Five of them were hanged, and the sixth was given leave to appeal and then acquitted at his retrial on the very same evidence that had convicted his friends. Strange old world, eh?’
‘How do you know all this?’ Doc asked.
‘There was a guy at the TV station who was a big Arthur Conan Doyle fan. Occasionally, we’d eat lunch together, and it came up in conversation that the Sherlock Holmes short story called The Red-Headed League was inspired by a trial in America. When I asked him what trial that was, he told me this story about the Blue Eyed Six. Never thought I’d ever be staying the night in the actual town, though. Remind me to send him a postcard of Lebanon in the morning, will you? He’ll get a kick out of it.’
‘No postcards,’ Doc said. ‘It’s best no one knows you’re here.’ He then peeled off two twenty-dollar bills and put them on the table. ‘Time to go, Jack. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.’
Doc woke with a start, gasping for breath and covered in perspiration. He lay there exhausted; his stomach churning, his heart pounding. He looked at the clock on the bedside table and groaned when he saw the digits 04:30 glowing red in the dark of the room. He resigned himself to the fact there would be no more sleep for him that night, turned on the television and tuned it to a news channel.
At 7:30 am, he climbed out of bed more exhausted than when he’d climbed into it. He went into the bathroom and ran the shower, stood under it for a good fifteen minutes while he collected his thoughts, and then shaved and dressed. He walked over to the diner, drank three cups of coffee and ordered two large coffees and some sausage and biscuits to go. Again, he paid in cash: no trails.
It was 8:30 am when Doc knocked on Jack’s door – three times, to be precise. Jack eventually opened the door looking dishevelled and still wearing the boxer shorts and T-shirt he’d slept in.
‘What time is it, Doc?’ he asked groggily.
‘After 8:30,’ Doc replied, looking at his watch. ‘There’s no rush but you need to start getting ready. Here’s your breakfast,’ he said, handing Jack the bag containing the coffee and biscuits. ‘We need to leave at 10:00. I’ll leave my door unlocked – knock on it when you’re ready.’ Jack nodded and Doc returned to his own room.
Doc was sitting on the can when Jack walked into the room. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he shouted through the bathroom door. Jack sat down on the bed and waited for Doc to admire his transformation. He heard the toilet flush and then the sound of a tap running. Shortly, Doc walked into the room drying his hands on a small towel. When he saw Jack, his jaw dropped.
‘Hell’s teeth, son!’ he exclaimed. ‘You look like some over the hill hooker!’
‘A hooker! How do you figure that? I think I look like one classy broad, even though I do say so myself.’
Doc said nothing, but spent the next ten minutes adjusting the amount of padding Jack had stuffed into his bra, toning down the eye shadow and lipstick, and adding more foundation to cover the shadow of his beard. He then stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.
‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘I can’t see you getting any dates, but if you keep your head down and wear these sunglasses you’ll serve the purpose. Now let’s go.’
Doc loaded their belongings into the car, and when the coast was clear called for Jack – passenger side, he reminded him. He then took control of the car and accelerated out of the motel’s grounds, narrowly missing two large ornamental pots. Jack looked across at him. ‘You sure you’re okay to drive?’
‘Sure,’ Doc answered. ‘One eye’s worse than the other, but I’ve still got some central vision left – for now, anyway. Fine details are a problem, but I can usually see cars in front of me – at least for the next thirty minutes, I can. Feel free to holler if it looks like I’m going to hit one.’
‘Okay, Doc, but maybe you should slow down a bit. You’re doing 70 mph. Did you know that?’
‘No. I can’t make out the dials. Dials come under the heading of fine details. Hope to God I can recognise Nancy when I see her.’
Despite Doc’s erratic use of the accelerator pedal and questionable lane discipline, they made it safely to the nursing home. Doc parked the car in a quiet area away from the main entrance, rubbed his eyes and smiled at Jack. ‘Okay, son, let’s do it!’
Jack waited in the car while Doc lifted the wheelchair from the trunk, assembled it and wheeled it to the passenger side door. He made pretence of helping Jack into the chair and then pushed it slowly to the main entrance. He was relieved to find that the receptionist on duty wasn’t the one who’d signed him in on his previous visit, and decided on the spot to use a pseudonym.
The receptionist was in conversation with an old man complaining about the fish tank in the foyer and seemed to welcome the interruption. Doc said his name was Homer Comer and that he and his wife Ruby were here to visit Nancy Skidmore in the secure unit. She smiled politely and asked him to sign the visitor’s book, noting the time of arrival in the column next to his name. She then wrote four numbers on a post-it note and handed the piece of paper to Doc.
‘This is the code you’ll need to open the door, Mr Comer.’
Doc thanked her. He then turned the wheelchair in the direction of the secure unit and casually pushed it down the corridor. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand. He muttered something under his breath that Jack couldn’t quite hear, and then punched the very same numbers into the keypad he’d punched on his previous visit: 1111. The door swung open.
The Fish Tank
In the beginning was the Word, and then the Word – all words – became meaningless.
The Nancy Skidmore who now resided in the secure unit of the Oaklands Retirement Centre was a person who had travelled a long way from her true self. Lichens and mosses clung to her mind as they would an ancient gravestone and the door to her memory, destined as it was to be locked and bolted from the other side, was fast closing shut.
If Nancy’s crazi
ness had been a constant, a condition she was unaware of and accepted at face value, then life for her would have been easier, and certainly preferable to the life she now lived. There were times, however, when the fog enveloping her mind lifted and she found herself gazing into clear blue skies, conscious of what was happening to her and, more worryingly still, mindful of the inevitable fate awaiting her. It was then that she became anxious. Being crazy and knowing it, was the scariest hell of all.
Nancy spent her days in the unit standing at its entrance and peering through the glass door into a world that was now denied her. For hours at a time she remained there unmoving, endlessly punching numbers into a keypad that would release the door from its latch and allow her escape. If, in the event, the door was opened from the other side by either attending staff or visitors, she would slip through the gap like greased lightning, only to be turned back with a gentle but firm hand and, often as not, escorted to the lounge area.
There, Nancy would pace the room’s perimeter or sit restlessly in one of the high seat armchairs that lined its walls. She sat as far from other residents as possible and spoke to them no more than she had to. She never started conversations, seldom understood the meaning of things they said to her, and was unsettled by their mumblings and occasional screams. She didn’t understand why she’d been placed with people who were so obviously wrong in the head, and couldn’t for the life of her comprehend why she wasn’t allowed to return home. Time and again she’d plead with nursing staff to let her go back to her own house, but she may as well have been speaking to a brick wall: all they did was smile at her, ignore her questions and treat her like a six-year-old child.
Nancy tried to remember how she’d got there, but remembering anything now was getting harder by the day. She vaguely remembered walking on the side of a road and being given a ride by a kindly policeman, but after that – nothing. She had a hazy recollection that someone was supposed to come get her, but wasn’t sure who that someone was: was it her husband, her parents, Ruby, or that nice boy she used to date in college? She had no real idea, and no one ever came. She lost track of the days, was unsure if she’d been there one day or ten, and started to worry that she’d always be there. Consequently, the morning Doc walked into the lounge, a huge feeling of relief swept over her – even if he was pushing a wheelchair with what appeared to be the ugliest woman in the world sitting on its seat.
‘Gene! Gene! I’m over here,’ Nancy called. She raised herself from the chair she was sitting in and moved towards him as fast as her sixty-seven-year-old legs would allow. Doc put his arms around her and held her to him.
‘You have to call me Homer, Nancy,’ he whispered. ‘It’s important!’
‘Why? Your name isn’t…’
‘You just do, Nancy,’ he interrupted her. ‘Now, where’s your room?’
She took his hand and led him the short distance, glancing at the woman in the wheelchair. ‘I thought you said your wife was dead, Gene,’ she whispered. ‘Have you been lying to me?’
Once inside the room, Doc closed the door and wedged it shut with a chair. He allowed Nancy to hug him one more time and then gently pushed her away. ‘Do you remember me telling you that the next time you saw me we’d be leaving here together?’ Nancy nodded. ‘Well, today’s the day. This is my godson, Jack, by the way. He’s going to help us.’
Jack held out his gloved hand to Nancy. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Skidmore, and if I might say so, you’re a lot better looking than your name might suggest – and certainly more attractive than the portrait Doc has of you.’
‘What’s he talking about, Gene?’
‘He’s just being friendly,’ Doc replied, casting a glance in Jack’s direction and silently imploring him not to complicate things. ‘Okay, Nancy, now listen to me carefully. This is what we’re going to do…’
While Doc talked, Jack took off the wig, sunglasses and clothes that masked his true identity and stood before Nancy as himself, wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a crew-necked sweater.
‘Who’s this?’ Nancy asked.
‘I told you, Nancy, he’s my godson. He’s here to help us.’ He then helped Nancy put the clothes Jack had just taken off over her own, and handed her the wig.
‘I’m not wearing this!’ Nancy said. ‘That man’s been wearing it and he might have nits.’
‘Believe me, Nancy, the care Jack takes over his hair, he’d be the last person on earth to have head lice.’
‘Actually, I did have them once,’ Jack said. ‘I got them from Conrad.’
‘Who’s Conrad?’ Nancy demanded.
‘He’s my son; or rather the boy I thought was my son.’
‘What’s he talking about, Gene?’
Doc took Jack by the arm and led him towards the room’s small bathroom. ‘Excuse us a minute would you, Nancy?
‘What the hell are you doing, Jack?’ he said. ‘You’re confusing her; can’t you see that? Keep things simple and just agree with anything I say. Okay?’
‘Okay… Sorry, Doc. Sometimes things just come out.’
‘Yes, I’ve been noticing that.’ Doc replied. The two men re-entered the room.
‘I’ve checked his hair, Nancy, and it’s fine. No nits!’
Reluctantly, Nancy pulled the wig over her own hair and Doc handed her the sunglasses. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed since they’d signed in. ‘It’s too soon to leave yet. We’ll wait another ten minutes.’
‘Are we going now?’ Nancy asked.
‘Soon, Nancy. Soon.’
Doc spent the remaining time searching the room for anything Nancy might need for the journey, patiently responding to her as she asked the same question over and over again: ‘Are we going now, Gene? Are we going now, Gene? Are we going now, Gene?’
Doc looked at his watch again: thirty minutes had passed. He told Nancy to sit in the wheelchair and hooked the arms of the sunglasses over her ears. He then knelt down and placed his hands on either side of her face. ‘Until we get outside, Nancy, you don’t say a word – even if someone speaks to you. Do you understand?’ She nodded. He kissed her on the cheek and then pushed the wheelchair out of the room.
Jack remained. He was to follow ten minutes later and, if challenged by anyone at reception, sign his name in the book against another visitor’s name. He rinsed his face with cold water, dried with a hand towel he found hanging at the side of the basin and then checked himself in the mirror. What he saw alarmed him, for while the foundation and lipstick had washed off, the mascara had stubbornly remained and left him looking like a droog from A Clockwork Orange. He swore under his breath, and kicked himself for having mistakenly bought waterproof instead of non-waterproof mascara. The only course of action left was to walk with his head down and hope he didn’t collide with anyone. He left Nancy’s room and walked self-consciously to the door of the Secure Unit. No one stopped him, no one looked. He punched the code into the keypad and started down the long corridor to the foyer. ‘So far, so good,’ he thought.
It was then he heard the explosion of a gun being fired, followed quickly by the noise of glass breaking and voices screaming. ‘Jesus, Doc!’ he exclaimed, ‘What the hell have you done now, you crazy old fool?’ He ran the remaining distance with his head up.
William Hoopes was a retired policeman from Berks County, Pennsylvania, and a man used to getting his own way. As an officer of the law he’d been a stickler and never once cut slack for anyone, friend or foe. The law was the law and so too, to his way of thinking, were his prejudices. He’d been used to power his whole life and had enjoyed seeing the look of fear in people’s eyes when he’d exerted it. He’d had few friends but believed himself to be widely respected. It therefore came as a surprise to him when, at the first high school reunion he attended after retiring, the other attendees booed him. Retirement, it seemed, had de-authorized him: what he’d presumed to be respect had, in fact, been fear all along.
What really annoyed him, however,
was the constant jibing about whether he was going to run for President again, maybe get a few more votes this time. Damn his namesake! He wasn’t even a relative of the Reading man they alluded to, and not even of his generation. And he certainly wasn’t a Socialist! In his book, Darlington Hoopes had been nothing more than a troublemaker, and if it had been left to him in 1956 he would have gladly strung the presidential candidate from a lamppost. Although he took solace in the fact that the old lawyer had polled only 2,192 votes – a mere 363 more than a New Jersey pig farmer standing as an independent candidate – it rankled that people connected him to such a loser.
William Hoopes tired of the ridicule and decided to leave Berks County for a town where no one knew him. He walked into the kitchen one morning and told his wife they were selling the house and moving to a retirement community in Hershey. For a while, he fitted in well at Oaklands. He made new friends and joined in many of the activities, but then the fish tank began to trouble him.
The aquarium was located in the foyer. It was large and filled with a variety of tropical marine fish. It was an eye catcher for anyone visiting the Oaklands Retirement Community and radiated an air of calm. As a result, the lobby had become a popular area for residents to sit and while away their time. During lulls in conversation, their eyes would turn to the multicoloured fish swimming in the tank and, often as not, they would fall asleep. All, that is, except William Hoopes, who had to constantly excuse himself and use the bathroom. The sound of running water, he found, was far from conducive to a man with an enlarged prostate.
Hoopes mentioned this to receptionists on the desk, brought it up at meetings, and wrote letters to the owners of the centre. He told them he was a reasonable man and willing to compromise: he was happy for the aquarium to stay where it was, but wanted the water pump turned off during daylight hours. When it was pointed out to him that the fish would die if such a course of action was taken and that the aquarium was there to stay, the authoritarian streak in Hoopes reared its ugly head and the man who claimed to be reasonable morphed into a fucking nightmare, as the administrators now described him. If he and his wife hadn’t occupied an expensive two-bedroom apartment in the complex, he would in all likelihood have been asked to leave.
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