by Rhett DeVane
“You must be Joy.” Choo-choo walked over and grasped the woman’s hand. “I’m Caroline Ivey, but folks call me Choo-choo. It’s from when I was a toddler and used to love trains. Believe choo-choo was one of the first things I learned to say. And goodness, I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding this place. Directions often defy me. I can’t tell east from west, even when the sun’s setting. Lordy. Do you have that problem? Many people do.”
Joy blinked. Her smile remained remarkably serene. She took a moment to answer. “Pleased to meet you, and no, I didn’t have any problem finding this place. I have a GPS.”
Choo-choo motioned in Abby’s direction. “This is Abby McKenzie. She’s the office manager for the dentist’s office uptown. I’ll do my best to introduce any others who show up, too. Just remind me if I forget my manners.”
Joy tipped her head in Abby’s direction, then asked, “Where may I set up? I have a CD player and plenty of yoga mats.”
Choo-choo glanced around the room. “Most anywhere you want, I suppose.”
“Any idea of how many may come tonight?” Joy said.
“I have no clue, to be honest. Two or three more for sure. Couple of ladies are out of town, but plan on joining us next week. I spread the word and Mary up at the newspaper put in an announcement. Mary’s good that way, and she wouldn’t take a red cent for the space either.” Choo-choo paused long enough to breathe. “Might take a few weeks to catch on. People tend to be a bit shy about new things until they hear enough back to take a chance and come see for themselves.”
Joy nodded. “And don’t worry about introductions. I like to take a few minutes before I start the meditation, to get to know each of you a little bit.” She wheeled the duffle to one end of the hall.
Abby noticed the way the yoga instructor moved, as if she had all the time in the world. When she walked, it was more of a glide with modulated steps, a ballet dancer. Her posture: erect, but not strained. Her straight chin-length hair was the kind for which bottle-blondes aspire—the color of morning sunlight, and obviously natural with no black roots. Her body showed no signs of extra fat. Spandex didn’t lie.
If yoga could do all that, Abby was all in.
Choo-choo’s gaze roamed to the doorway. Loiscell and Sheila walked in. “So glad you came, Loiscell. I was hoping. And look-ie here! If it isn’t Sheila Burns.”
Loiscell cast a paisley-printed duffle to the floor. “Why the heck not?” She motioned with a tip of her head. “I dragged Sheila along for support.”
Abby remembered Loiscell from the office, though Dr. Payne hadn’t seen her for a while. Sheila, she recognized from the events page of the Twin City News. Must be nice to have all that extra time to be socially conscious. Abby gave to the United Way and American Cancer Society, and bought fund-raiser chocolate candy and gift wrap from the neighborhood kids, but never had the inclination to head up a committee or charity drive. Tonight was the first time she had seen Sheila sans the prissy clothing, and less than perfect. Might even God have an at-home-in-the-clouds, off-duty robe, slightly worn and faded with use? Maybe there was hope.
Joy unpacked her duffle. A small CD player first, then a four-inch wooden figurine—a kneeling man with prayer hands and bowed head—with a matching incense tray. She lit the long stick, blew on it until a thin stream of woodsy aromatic smoke emerged, and stuck it into the wooden tray. Then she motioned to the restroom sign and excused herself.
“I’m going to have a flashback to college parties,” Abby commented. “Of course, the incense then was to cover up the smell of pot.” The good old days, when she actually ventured out, tried to meet new people.
Choo-choo’s painted eyebrows shot up. “Abby McKenzie. I would’ve never taken you for a dope fiend!”
“Oh good Lord, Choo-choo. I wasn’t. Anybody who went to school during the late seventies and early eighties might say the same thing. Heck, some parties, you could get high just breathing. Doesn’t mean I smoked. Well . . . that once to see what the big deal was. Didn’t like it. Made me feel too wacky, and I ate until I got sick afterwards.”
“I smoked it when I went through chemo last time,” Loiscell said in a low voice.
The three women stared at her. The air conditioner vent above them wheezed.
“Okay, so arrest me.” Loiscell adjusted her sunflower-print bandana. “It helped with the nausea. I couldn’t eat without wanting to heave my guts up. I had someone—won’t tell who so don’t bother asking—bring me a couple of marijuana cigarettes. I smoked barely enough to calm my stomach. It was a lifesaver. And Sheila, don’t look at me like that, Little Miss Goody Two-shoes.”
Sheila glanced from one woman to the next. “She was pretty sick. I took her my chicken and rice soup, and she could barely get a spoonful down.”
Abby lifted one shoulder, let it fall. “Personally, I don’t see why it’s against the law. People can drink themselves into a coma. Heaven only knows how many fine upstanding people are hooked on prescription drugs. Pot’s a medicine, after all. And it has some good points.”
“You’re quite a radical, Abby,” Choo-choo said.
Abby threw her hands up. “Yep. That’s me. Everything about me screams radical.”
Eight weeks before suicide, Tuesday
Loiscell Pickering palpated the raised bump to the left of her sternum. “You have got to be kidding me . . . for the love of God!”
Oblong, tender and hard, about the size of a grape. Again with the blasted fruit comparison! Why did the medical profession do that? Now she was doing it. Make it a dot of evil, or an inkblot of wicked.
What about the dang five-year mark? According to all the hype, at that point a woman could breathe easier. Home safe. Cancer vanquished. Yet for the second time, that milestone had come with a repeat performance of good-cells-gone-bad.
Loiscell closed her eyes and leaned against the shower stall. A wave of dizziness passed over her. Please don’t let me faint. Now wouldn’t that be a fine how-de-do? Someone—probably Sheila—would knock at the back door. Her friend would hesitate for a few seconds before knocking harder, then let herself in with the key hidden beneath the orange plastic jug of Tide in the washroom.
And there Loiscell would be, her scrawny, naked, no-breasted, scared body sprawled out halfway between the tub and toilet, water still pounding in a steady stream, the curtain jerked askew by her descent.
No, she had to pull it together, at least until she got some underwear on. When she dried off and stood in front of the full-length mirror, the lump was still there. The skin puckered slightly around it.
“Son of a dog.”
A familiar sweet-sick, scorched taste washed over her tongue, the same one that had arrived after chemotherapy and altered everything she tried to eat. Spaghetti, chocolate mousse, cranberry juice, pasta: all flavored like the soiled bottom of a parrot cage. After five years, the stained memory should have vanished, but no, it was right there on her tongue.
Loiscell fumbled for the bottle of alcohol-free mouthwash, took a swig, and tipped her head back for a deep gargle. No use. Even after she spit out the last of the blue-green foam, the foul taste remained.
She would call the oncologist. Make an appointment. Carry her soul-weary self over to Tallahassee.
“Here we go again.” Loiscell exhaled a long, slow breath.
How would she tell the kids? Not kids anymore, but she still thought of them as such. Lisa would drop everything and dash from Atlanta, no matter how tough her schedule. Lance would eventually wander through on his way to somewhere: long-distance biking, bungee jumping, surfing. He must’ve gotten that from Roger’s side of the family. Loiscell’s idea of high adventure was spraying for aphids without a mask.
“Think positive,” said those self-help books cluttering her shelves. Okay. She tried. But deep inside on some cellular, intuitive level, she knew. Cancer had tapped her for a dance, once again. Only this time Loiscell didn’t know if she could find the strength to waltz with the dragon.
Friends always prodded her to pray. Thanks to the Internet and Elvina Houston, distant people she didn’t know held her in their pleas. Loiscell did talk to God. All the time. But she hated to beg, and many of her petitions to Heaven leaned toward groveling and bargaining.
Loiscell had never been much of a joiner. No garden clubs. No Junior League. No sewing circle. She attended church services a few times, one sect as good as the next. Weren’t they all supposed to be heading in the same direction? Only don’t tell them that. Each proclaimed they guarded the toll bridge to the Almighty.
A building couldn’t hold God. How could you cram something so immense into something so finite? When she pulled weeds, she prayed. When she clipped spent blossoms, she worshiped. When she gathered flowers to share with friends and neighbors, she tithed. When she looked on the garden with awe, she offered up thanks. Not so formal as hours of knee-time, but more comforting.
How could she lose faith when nature didn’t? Each season brought change. Spring with its lime green newness. Summer with the afternoon scent of roses, mint and rosemary, and the contented buzz of bees. Fall: rust, yellow, red, and brown. A time to collect, harvest, and ready for sleep. Winter, an opportunity to rest and look ahead. The circle curled into itself and Loiscell followed.
Loiscell plugged in the blow dryer and aimed it at the remnants of her once-thick hair. The appliance whined with a troubling internal rattle. Time for a new one. Since January, the oven, dishwasher, washer, and dryer had been replaced. Then the new roof and gutters. The hot water heater hacked and spit its last breath in May, and the air conditioner compressor crapped out on the hottest day in early July.
“Everything in this house is breaking down,” she announced to the silence.
Sheila Bruner paused by her back porch, her ears trained on a faint sound emanating from the shrubs. A mewling noise like the cry of a baby bird, something alive and helpless. She dashed into the kitchen, grabbed a flashlight, and returned. As she neared, a second, familiar cry sounded.
“Buttercup?” The meowing grew insistent. “Where are you, sweetie?”
Sheila knelt and brushed aside the foliage. Buttercup peered up at her and blinked in the flashlight’s beam. “What do we have here? What have you brought me, you silly old kitty?” Beside the cat, a furry bundle of black and white bobbed its head, its eyes not yet open.
She scooped the newborn into her palm and cradled the kitten into the warmth between her breasts. The tiny feline shivered and poked blindly in search of nourishment. “Where’s your mama, little one?”
No way of knowing. The mother could be dead, hit by a car or carried away by a hawk. The rest of the litter might be somewhere starving. Nature could be as cruel as she was bountiful, a fact that often tried Sheila’s faith.
“Don’t you worry, baby. I’ll get you something to eat.” She leaned down and gathered Buttercup. “You too. I know you’ll worry yourself to death if I take this baby away. You found her . . . him? Let’s get you both some supper, shall we?”
Good thing Glenn was passed out in the living room. One cat, now two? How would she keep them from ending up in a sack in the bottom of the river?
Sheila lined a shoebox with a piece of flannel from one of Glenn’s old shirts and placed both cats inside. In a few minutes, she set a shallow bowl with canned cat food mixed with a little milk on the floor. “You get the good stuff, Buttercup.”
While the older cat lapped the slurry, Sheila cradled the newborn in one hand and fed it warmed milk with an eyedropper. For a few weeks, it would require regular feedings. She’d need to buy goat’s milk. Better tolerated, easier for its little digestive system. Somehow, she would find a way to keep it alive.
“What will we call you, hmm? It will be a while before I can take you to the vet to tell if you are a she or he, so it needs to be something that won’t embarrass you later.”
The kitten nestled deep into her palm, purring. It had taken a few ounces of milk, enough to sustain it. In a couple of hours, she could offer more. Sheila studied the kitten’s markings. Midnight black with white paws, a white belly and ruff, and one small lick of white above its upper lip. A tuxedo cat, always dressed formally for any occasion.
“Oreo! How about Oreo?”
Eight weeks before suicide, Friday
Glenn Burner slapped a mosquito and grimaced. Full of blood. What use were they, other than to annoy the beejezus out of a person? And this West Nile virus thing. Yet another worry. Every summer, a few horses keeled over because of it. Snuffed out a few humans, too.
Tents scattered in a nylon rash across a wide clearing deep within the two-hundred acre woodland like one big Boy Scout Jamboree. And Glenn loved every fatigue-clad second: the campfire tales of past military glories; the hearty meat and potato diet; farting and belching; the company of real men. No candy-assed mama’s boys allowed; if one dared to show up, he would be strapped to one of the pop-up poster-board people in the three-mile training course. Shot deader than Hell, then buried in a pit so deep in the piney woods, only the devil could claim his sissified soul.
“Sure will be glad when the first freeze kills off the skeeters.” Glenn sprayed a coating of bug repellant across the exposed areas of his skin and misted his hair. “Damn things are a pain in my ass.”
“Ain’t you got enough blood for them to suck, girly-boy?” one of the men said.
Laughter trickled around the circle like pond ripples after a skipped rock. Glenn’s face grew hot.
“Yeah, Nancy,” another commented. “They can’t get enough blood, maybe they can suck your fat off instead.”
In the circle of low light cast by the fire pit, Glenn couldn’t tell which dude had spoken. His first reaction: show the jackasses a nice view of his gun barrel. “Good beer makes for good love handles,” he said. “Guess you assholes wouldn’t know about that, since you don’t get any.” Glenn half-sneered, half-smiled.
“Best tell your wife to cut back on your feedbag, son.” This voice came from the head of the group. Retired chief of police. Everyone knew his name, and the small town where he lived and had once reigned as law enforcement king, yet called him by his alias, Big Dog.
Kind of dumb. Wasn’t like they were in New York City. Most people within a three-county radius either knew you or your people. The Privacy Rule was one of many “established directives”: the secret-code passwords and handshakes, the hazing ceremony designed to weed out the wimps, the suggested firearms and ammo, standardized fatigues and day-glow orange hunter’s vests, and the “suggestion” that each “associate” take a different route to the camp every time.
Many times, Glenn had walked past one of the members in a Tallahassee restaurant, acknowledging him with a quick glance. Unless he knew the man outside of the group, he didn’t exist.
Anger roiled his stomach. By morning, he would contend with the inevitable case of the runs that came with grease and booze. And that extra weight was all Sheila’s fault. She wanted him fat, the ass-end of jokes.
He would deal with her when he got home.
Abby McKenzie didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID display.
“Abby?”
“Yes.”
Hesitation and the sound of a muffled sniff. “This is Gerald, Sabrina’s husband.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Listen, my wife . . . Sabrina’s been in a bad car accident. She’s in surgery right now.”
“Oh, geez! What happened? She going to be okay?”
Abby heard a long release of breath like the sigh of a nail-pricked tire.
“She was over here—in Tallahassee. Some nut was talking on his cell phone and ran a red light. T-boned the car. It’s history, totaled. But that doesn’t matter.”
Gerald stopped for a moment before continuing. “Her leg’s pretty messed up. Some other fractures—pelvis, collarbone. She hit her head.”
“What can I do, Gerald? Just tell me.”
“I’ve called the neighbors. They feed our a
nimals when we’re out of town, and they have a key, so that’s taken care of. I . . . just . . . Sabrina was conscious when I got here. Kept asking me to call you and let you know to cancel patients on Monday.” He huffed. “What am I saying . . . she won’t be back into work for some time.”
“That should be the least of your worries right now. That office will be right there, and I will take care of things.” Crap, crap, crap. Add one more pebble to the pile.
“Thanks, Abby. You’ll call Dr. Payne?”
“Done. If you think of anything else—and I mean anything—call me. If I can’t get it done, I will find someone who can.” Abby grabbed the laptop and clicked on her address book icon. Somewhere, she had the names and numbers of a couple of substitute hygienists. Had to get on it.
“Oh, and Abby? Please ask folks to give her a few days before they show up at the hospital, will you? I know her. She’ll want to visit and make like everything is peachy. They may have her in Intensive Care for a bit.”
“Her patients will want to send cards, no doubt. I’ll ask them to mail them to the office, and I’ll bring them over later. Which hospital?”
“Tallahassee General. Not sure where they’ll send her after the surgery. I’ll call you when I find out.” Gerald paused. “And Abby? Sabrina hates those big lilies . . . the ones that are kind of white with pinkish in the middle . . . ?”
“Stargazer lilies?”
“They make her sick on her stomach. I remember when she had her hysterectomy. She got two bouquets we had to take out of the room. She said they smelled like cat pee.”
Funny, the places a person’s mind might go during times of stress. Like her, pissing and moaning about extra work when some surgeon hovered over a coworker. Nice, Abby.
Eight weeks before suicide, Saturday
Sometimes a bad feeling crawled all over Elvina Houston.
