by PamelaDuMond
The truce between her and Derrick broke earlier that morning when she caught him peeking at her through the curtain as she showered. Now he followed her. “Get busy, Sweetie. I’m exhausted. I’ll be napping in yonder rowboat,” he said, and pointed to a boat tethered yards from a small pier. “It’s poetic, don’t you think. It’s where I reclined while I waited for you to conjure me up from just a pinch of my potent cremains.”
“Whatever, dorko.” Annie saw Pimply Monk, who was still pimply and eyeballed her legs as he hand weeded a garden area yards away from her. She planned to elude the monks by entering their property during an off time. Guess that hadn’t happened. She hoped Pimply didn’t recognize her. She walked past him and chanted in a monotone German-Hindu under her breath. Chanting would fit in with the shrine’s regulars and might soothe and distract him. (Why German? For some reason L.A. had tons of tourists from Deutche-land. And Nancy her Lutheran German mother taught her a few words. Why Hindu? Could have been fondue, ’cause Annie made it up.) “Einz vie drie, Heinz ketchup, sprechen-zie,” she chanted and passed Pimply without being apprehended. Her legs, however, did feel pinched and fondled. Thanks again for her empathic gift.
The Shrine was still startling beautiful. How many flowers and cedar chips could one place that was still, technically, in the late winter season hold? Did someone, probably Silver Monk, think about how the sun pierced the beginnings of the late afternoon ocean mist and filtered through the tree branches? Why did all the tree branches glimmer with light? It reminded Annie of the aftermath of the big Oconomowoc ice storm back in 1977. The blinding shine reflected off the ice covered tree branches, roads, ponds, lakes, as well as Mrs. Stumpledum’s upside down Pomeranian dog that was found frozen in the icy puddle at the bottom of her driveway.
Memories of Derrick’s memorial service, the night she botched Nonna Maria’s Get Rid of Dead Assholes spell, when she unfortunately conjured Derrick’s ghost, bounced through her head with every step. Maybe she was having a bad flashback from some wilder time in her life when she didn’t, “Just Say No.” Or maybe the Shrine was a pretty, warmer version of hell frozen over.
Annie looked at the pond and the foliage now, but with purpose. She searched for the perfect spot for her mission. This expedition was for her, not Derrick. It was for her broken heart, tired eyes, sore arms, and the overwhelming need to pay her bills and rent. This mission was for her sanity. She strode past a bench next to the large plaque that proclaimed right here, was a Ghandi ash.
An older couple sat on the bench. The woman had helmet hair and wore a plum colored velour jumpsuit. The man had a cane and a pair of binocs that he trained on Annie’s behind as she passed them.
Bootsy and Bob Bauerfeld were back at the Shrine, weeks after Derrick’s memorial. Bootsy noticed Bob’s noticing Annie’s shapely behind. She frowned and elbowed him. He jumped. “You said animal watching, Mr. Family Values,” Bootsy said.
Bob slumped and trained his binocs back on the pond.
Annie walked to the spot where Derrick’s memorial plaque was cemented into the ground. That would be a totally sweet place to launch her mission. Maybe she’d even spit on it again. But, when she got closer, she realized it wouldn’t work, ’cause some twenty something blondie guy crouched over it, and wept.
Blondie’s head was in his hands; his long perfect Breck hair shimmered with highlights as it shook across his wide Abercrombie and Fitch model-like shoulders with each sob.
Woos, thought Annie. Most likely another I Promise, loser. She trekked further down the trail and circled the pond ’till she found a spot that could, if she was willing to get a little dirty, work. Yeah there. Since when was a girl from Wisconsin scared of getting dirty? Not her, not now. Oddly, the not-so-perfect spot was directly across the pond from where Derrick’s memorial service was held. It had plenty of foliage and trees, loud ducks and a few swans. No monks. No Derrick. No blondie crying guy.
Annie hopped off the trail and navigated through scads of fronds and lilies peppered in bird poop in a patch of muddy ground that sloped to the pond. She made her way down the small landing, but slipped and her legs flew out from underneath her. She landed on her butt, slid a couple of feet down the incline and knocked over a few irritated and loud birds. Two ducks pecked her leg. A swan bit her arm. Annie waved her arms and legs and glared at them. Thought those hateful birds were like cute innocent looking feathered pit bulls.
She pushed herself off her back and swatted the swan. “I respect PETA’s intentions. However, I will happily turn you into a purse,” she said. “And you!” She pointed at one of the vicious ducks. “I would tenderly roast you with a Cointreaux flavored orange sauce and serve you with baby greens and sautéed carrots.” She hollered and pushed them off her. They waddled off, squawking.
The young blond male hottie stood up, and looked up at her from across the pond. He wiped a few tears away and stared at her, confused.
She glared back at him. He looked familiar, but being that she was covered in bird crap and nursing pecked legs, she simply couldn’t concentrate on why beautiful blondie didn’t register on her man-dar.
“No, I didn’t mean you, Lars,” she hollered at him. “Just meditate or get your highlights re-done.”
He stopped looking at her and squatted back down next to Derrick’s commemorative plaque.
God help her, if she saw Blondie crying again, she’d send that mean little pecker of a swan after him. Then he’d have something to cry about, for real.
She crouched on the dirt, pulled off her shirt and revealed a cute bikini top. She pulled skin diver goggles and a snorkel out of her backpack and placed them on her head. Rolled up her pants legs to the tippy top of her legs. She looked at the gray and green pond water that resembled a toxic soup with sprinkles of botulism and flesh eating bacteria. “I can do this,” she said. Took a deep breath, and let it out.
“I have no doubts, Cupcake,” Derrick replied as he reclined in the rowboat, arms stretched overhead. He caught a glimpse of blondie and sat straight up, startled. One of his hands flew to his chest.
The Observer crouched in Australian tea-tree bushes close to the Shrine’s pond, and watched the blonde guy who hovered over Derrick’s plaque. The Observer spotted Annie on the pond’s bank directly across from the guy. She wore a bikini top covered in daisies and waded into the pond. Bitch! The Observer had warned Dimwit the other night. But, apparently she was stupid or lucky because Dimwit was always showing up in the right place, most of the time. Someone had to be feeding her info. Who? The blonde guy crying over Derrick’s memorial plaque? Annie the baker was supposed to be a patsy, a set-up, and a throwaway clue for the cops to wonder about for years after Derrick’s murder investigation went cold. Or maybe, in a perfect world, an I Promise world, L.A.’s finest would get frustrated and find enough evidence to pin Derrick’s murder on Ms. Annie Graceland soon-to-be-formerly, Piccolino.
But this ongoing chase, this time spent, jeopardized the big goal. Nothing mattered but the big goal. The Observer was running out of time, and definitely out of patience. Because the Observer had followed the blonde guy here, not Annie. This was all so unnecessary and exhausting. The Observer couldn’t deal with any more exhaustion, any more stress. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time to give a major shock.
Annie waded through the pond’s murky waters about twenty-five feet out from Derrick’s plaque. If she was lucky, her engagement and wedding rings were still there, at the bottom of the pond, resting on rocks or sand. If she were unlucky, some stupid fish or bird had gobbled her baubles. She’d probably get in trouble if she had a fish fry and bird BBQ on the Shrine’s property. Especially if someone caught her. But, finding her engagement and wedding rings, and pawning them, would cover another month or two of rent and bills. Right now paying her bills and staying afloat, was month by month. It was a sad truth, but since she moved to L.A., she realized lots of people lived just that way. She took a deep breath, stuck her head in the pond water, next her shoulder
s, then her entire body and waded in.
She swam inches from the bottom of the pond, squinted through her mask and searched for her rings. She picked up and pocketed some American and a bunch of Euro coins. If she combed the whole pond she might get enough to pay for a couple gallons of gas. When she spotted something small, round and glimmery at the bottom of the pond just yards in front of her. Air bubbles escaped in a burst from her snorkel.
She pinwheeled her arms, stuck her head out of the water, and gasped for breath. The duck she threatened with orange sauce paddled towards her, determined, like a feathered Jaws. She looked at the rowboat – no Derrick. But the small glint twinkled again from the bottom of the pond. Could those be her rings? The ones she tossed in anger the night she conjured Dr. Derrick Fuller from the dead? What the hell, they waited for her and she wasn’t going to let them just sit there. She re-adjusted her mask and snorkel, took a deep breath and dove.
The Observer watched Dimwit dive again and pulled something from a knapsack. It was round, twelve inches across in length, and six inches deep. It was festively colored and looked like it was made of metal. The Observer lifted it up and down, several times. It wasn’t light and seemed solid. The Observer had realized Derrick lied over and over, and screwed up the plan. The Observer was not left with a choice. Simply had to let go of Derrick, in order to protect all that was sacred and life affirming. Now this Dimwit bitch, who was supposed to be a patsy, endangered the plan. Revenge was sweet – but priorities? First, beautiful blondie, then Dimwit patsy in the bikini top.
A small portion of Annie’s butt rose above the pond water, and slowly swam towards the opposite shore. Her shorts were a muddy camouflage green-brown, soaking wet and almost blended with the murky water.
From his position on the bench next to Ghandi’s ash, Bob Bauerfeld jumped like when he’d been hit with the resuscitating paddles after his first heart attack. “Bootsy!” He pointed to Annie’s butt. “Look! An endangered species. A Bifurcated African Turtle. Get the camera phone.”
“Oh, Bob. So exciting!” Bootsy said, dug through her purse and pulled it out. “You’re the technical one. What do I do?”
“Aim and shoot, Boots. It’s immortality and the cincher for our new ad campaign. I promise you.”
The Observer cradled the large metallic weapon. Snuck through the beautiful bushes, the flowering plants, and stood three feet away from Derrick’s memorial plaque. The Observer surveyed the pond – Dimwit wasn’t visible. The Observer regarded the gorgeous blondie who knelt at Derrick’s plaque.
“I miss you,” Blondie said, stared at the plaque and his lower lip quivered.
The Observer stepped out from the bushes. “I know who you are,” the Observer said and noted the young man’s tiny, almost imperceptible accent.
Blondie looked up, wiped a tear away from one of his impossibly high photogenic cheekbones. “Then, you know why I’m sad.”
“Maybe you should go with him,” the Observer said.
“I can’t,” Blondie said and stroked Derrick’s plaque. “He’s dead.”
“A tragedy,” the Observer replied and pointed to Annie’s butt that crested in the pond several yards from them. “What’s that?”
Blondie turned and looked. The Observer took the opportunity to smash him over his head repetitively with the weapon until he fell into the pond; face down, bleeding from his head and neck. The Observer threw the weapon at his back. Watched as blondie’s muscular shoulders and jeans that hugged his perfect tight butt sank in the pond. “Derrick promised me! Promised me before he ever even knew you,” the Observer hissed. “I saw the bus station pictures. I took the bus station pictures. You should never have come here, let alone stayed.”
Big statement accomplished. The Observer walked, then jogged down the path and exited through the Shrine’s front gates.
Annie was underwater. Her rings were about two feet from her grasp. Yay! She’d recover her tokens of eternal love and trust and sell them to a diamond dealer. It was, after all, Los Angeles where diamond brokers were as common as 7-11s or White-Hen-Pantries back in the Midwest. First she’d pay her rent. Then the bills: phone, gas, electric, cell phone, internet/cable, health insurance, federal taxes, state taxes, her CPA, first credit card, second credit card, the annuity retirement thing, car payment (yes, she was still paying for that piece of shit-oops-classic automobile), a couple of trashy magazines, the outstanding balance at the vet’s office for Teddy’s health issue. She’d pay back her loans to her friends, family and the lawyer for the marital filings. Probably five more things she’d currently forgotten.
She shivered under water. Her feet tingled from the cold. But in her sight, right in front of her, just one stroke away, were her rings. She swam, grabbed them. Mission accomplished! She stuck them on her fourth finger, left hand. But they didn’t fit. Apparently, stress had made not just her butt fatter, but also her fingers. Fine. She shoved the rings on her pinky finger.
But, why was the water suddenly tinged in red? A large hand landed on her facemask. She screamed underwater, which was not a good thing as she spit out her snorkeling tube. Blondie sank in the water in front of her. Blood seeped from his head and face. He didn’t look good, but he didn’t look dead, either. Then, she heard Derrick in her head and saw him underwater, waving his hands, apoplectic.
“You have to rescue him. Now!” Derrick hollered.
She watched Blondie sink. Looked like he weighed way more than she did. She swam as fast as she could through the muck, got underneath him and pushed him up from the bottom of the pond to the surface. Their heads broke through the water and she gasped for air. Blondie didn’t. Not a good sign.
Drenched in pond scum, covered in moss and fighting lilies, Annie towed Blondie to the shore, where he landed, still not breathing. She pushed him onto his side and pounded on his back. He gagged out water. She straddled him and pushed on his sternum multiple times. He hacked out some water, green goop and breathed, ragged, shallow. She ripped some fabric from the hem of her shorts and held it to his head in an attempt to quell the bleeding. But there was so much blood.
Meanwhile, Pimply Monk saw the crazy goings on and raced towards her. His eyes were wide and dilated.
“You. Call 911! Now!” Annie yelled. “You break your vow of silence and tell them what’s going on or I’ll personally rip out your tongue so you will never speak, again. Got it?”
Pimply turned white, pulled a cell out of his pocket and dialed 911. And told the operator in a whisper, where and what the emergency was.
Annie gave Blondie mouth to mouth. His breathing was stronger, thank God. Color seeped back into his cheeks. His head was beat up, bloody, but he reached his hand tenuously across the wet dirt. He found Annie’s hand and squeezed it. In the distance she heard sirens.
She also heard Derrick, his voice low. “Tell Franco his dad loves him, but it’s not time for him to join him.”
“What? Why do you care? Who’s his Dad?” Annie asked.
“Because I love Franco,” Derrick popped up above the pond’s surface next to her. “Because he’s my son.”
Annie stroked Blondie’s hand and repeated Derrick’s words. Blondie squeezed her hand again. “The pictures. Bus station,” he said, and then passed out.
Sirens rang from approaching police cars. Pimply Monk jumped up and down, pointing and waving. Paramedics armed with their gear sprinted towards the pond. They hooked Blondie up to an oxygen mask, put a sturdy neck brace on him strapped him to a stretcher and took his vitals.
Annie thought that if luck were on everyone’s side, Blondie might make it.
Annie sat in the St. Cecelia’s Hospital emergency waiting room. She lowered her rolled-up board shorts back down to a decent level. There was a gaping hole in her pants where she had harvested fabric to staunch Blondie’s wounds. That hole flashed way too much of her upper right thigh. Pond goop dried in her hair. She’d told the cops who showed up at the Shrine that she was retrieving her rings when sh
e spotted Blondie sinking in the water, and rescued him. She didn’t mention the spare change she pocketed. She also didn’t tell the police whom Blondie was related to ’cause she needed time to think about that angle. Who wanted both Derrick and his son dead, as well as the big question – why?
The Bauerfelds and Pimply Monk had not witnessed the attack and didn’t have a lot to tell the police. The police retrieved what they thought to be the weapon in the assault. It was a round festive holiday tin that sported a label that described its contents – a two-year-old fruitcake from Country March. The same upscale deli that used to carry Annie’s baked goods.
Derrick sat next to Annie on the uncomfortable chairs in St. Cecelia’s Hospital emergency waiting room. His skin tone was a little gray. “I can’t rouse them,” he said. “They won’t talk to me. They don’t see me.”
“Who do you mean ‘they’?” Annie asked. Her eyes narrowed and she looked around the emergency room. “Dead people? Do you see dead people, Derrick?”
“God, no. The medical doctors. They’re in their own little world. They seem a little arrogant.”
She patted his dead arm. “Let me see what I can do.” She got up and walked down the hallway.
She spotted a door labeled, “Intern Lounge – No Entrance.” She jiggled the door handle. It wasn’t locked. She walked inside. If they really meant, “No Entrance,” they should have made it a little tougher to get in.
Moments later, she walked out of the lounge with her hair in a surgical hairnet. She wore scrubs and a long white doctor’s coat with a nametag that read, “Dr. Sanjay Patel, M.D.”
Annie stood and Derrick knelt next to the ICU bedside of Franco, Derrick’s son. There were beeping machines and IV lines hooked to drips and a blood pressure clamp on Franco’s finger. He was unconscious with multiple abrasions and cuts on his still-beautiful face. Someone had been sweet and wiped most of the blood off his face and hairline. But that person couldn’t wipe away the swelling, dark bruises and funky misaligned boney angles from the facial fractures and other traumas.
