by Greg Jolley
I was doing so when I heard a young woman’s voice.
With my hands upward, I looked over my shoulder to her voice, sounding grainy from the receiver on the table. She spoke in low tones. Her speech was adamant, and she was pleading.
The old man asked, “Butter for your bread?”
Struggling to make out her words, I answered, “No, thank you.”
The telephone went silent.
I watched the telephone and waited a minute before I joined the old man at the table with the cups, plates, and bowls. I set them out, and he nodded approval as I sat down. He moved to the range and stirred the baked beans which were bubbling and offering a sweet, warm scent. Listening for the voice from the telephone, I watched him pour coffee for himself and me.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded twice, grinned, and went back to the stove. I took two greedy, scalding drinks from my cup.
“Mind garlic in your beans?”
Before I could answer, he set a plate of brown bread before me.
I pushed a round of black rye into my mouth and spoke through the bread.
“No, sir.”
I fed myself, consuming four slices of the moist and slightly sweet bread with continuous and fast chewing.
The old man opened the cabinet door to the right of the stove and removed one of at least forty garlic powder bottles. I ate more bread while he sprinkled garlic onto the beans. He opened a drawer beside the sink and took out two spoons and a baby food jar topped with a piece of cloth. He wiped the spoons with the cloth and looking at me, said, “Sterling.”
I smiled and selected another slice of bread.
He placed the pot on the table and handed me a spoon. I watched him ladle beans into my bowl.
“I don’t suppose you’re here to tour my fine, country living homes?” he asked.
“No. Sir. I’m…”
“Too bad. We have the finest in scenic and active living. Beautiful residences. Each with plentiful decking and expansive, private views. We offer tennis, swimming, and community activities. In addition, we offer creative and highly competitive financing.”
I found myself nodding in rhythmic appreciation of this information. He refilled my bowl and raised his eyebrows in exclamation.
“A young man as yourself, perhaps married soon, starting a family, not wanting to confine his wife and children to apartment life or urban squalor, might do well to consider the type of life we offer. The type of life Greenland, California, has to offer.”
He was ignoring his food and drinking his cup of coffee. I took three big spoonfuls.
“You might want to take a look around. Look at the units. There’re literature and cost and financial packages in the community center lobby.”
“Yes. I will,” I said with my mouth full.
The old man smiled over the rim of his coffee cup. I took a large bite of round rye bread. I was taking a second bite, without having swallowed the first, when her voice rose from the telephone.
“Is that Luscious?” I said, my voice feeling slippery.
I turned to listen closer, and, because I did, it was the side of my head that struck the edge of the table.
“Christ in the clutter,” were the last words I heard him say.
I WAS climbing a leaning floor, and a baby was screaming. I watched myself climb to the window and out into a fierce wind. I grabbed tightly to the base of the radio tower atop the building, and Luscious climbed out with me. We stood in the great wind watching the beach of rusted steel plates far below. An airplane passed with faces pressed to the round windows. Most of the passengers looked horrified, but a few were drop-jawed in admiration of my bravery. I could feel Luscious right there beside me, and she was no longer scared. The building continued to tilt, and when the radio tower was parallel to the beach, I reached for her hand. I missed. I fell through the sky as the baby’s cries grew louder.
I landed with my body tangled in white sheets. When my head struck the mattress, I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar dark room. I had a nauseating headache that was pushing bile into my mouth.
I could see right away that I was in a hotel room.
I turned to the nightstand and saw an empty water glass. A baby was crying, and it hurt my head and eyes. I wanted a drink of water, right away. I bottom-slid to the foot of the bed. The crying was coming from behind the door on the opposite wall.
When I stood, I vomited on the carpet. Straightening up and keeping myself perfectly still, I saw my clothes and satchel on the desk beside the dresser and mirror.
The pain that was swimming my vision left no room for thought, only observation. I slowly crossed to the door which opened to the bathroom full of painful, white light. The panicked cries were coming from the bathtub.
I pulled back the plastic curtain and looked down at the naked baby, maybe a year old, laying on a great many towels. There were five baby bottles about the infant, most of which were empty. He had messed many times, and his red face was clenched and angry as he took gasps of breath to gather volume.
I had to stop the crying. I offered a wave, to no effect.
“Please be quiet,” I asked him.
The sound of my distant, thick voice peeled back a layer of the headache, and I experienced a dull inkling of curiosity.
“What’s going on?”
I glanced back into the bedroom, and as he continued to cry, I left the bathroom. I watched myself put on my clothes. I pulled on my socks and boots and returned to the bathroom, and, this time, with my clothes on, I felt a bit more aware.
I noticed the tin of Similac and the tiny jars of food. I drank four handfuls of water from the tap before reading the tin and jar labels out loud over the protests from the bathtub.
I picked up one of the empty bottles from the towel-lined, badly smelling bathtub and rinsed it out. I made up a bottle of warm water just as the directions instructed. When I handed it to him and nudged his lips with the nipple, the crying stopped.
The new silence pulled another layer of pain from the headache. I ran warm water in the sink to bathe before getting a better idea. I picked up the messy baby and lay him on the bed surrounded by pillows. I ran the shower on the towels and bottles until the smears of mess were gone. The towels and bottles went into the sink. I removed my goggles and took a shower with my eyes closed.
Back in the bedroom, I began to dress again but stopped while watching the little guy. His eyes found mine, and he stared. I knelt on the bed and offered him a smile. He appeared to like that. I shivered and located the thermostat and cranked it. Back on the bed, I gave a little pull at the bottle. He yelped, so I released it.
In the bathroom, I closed the drain trap and started the shower. I went and found two blankets in the closet. With the blankets on the sink counter and the water a few inches deep in the tub, I went to get him.
It was immediately clear that he didn’t like the showering water, so I changed the flow to the spout. I sat down in the water with him between my legs.
I washed his back and chest, legs and arms before wrapping him in the two blankets and patting his skin and hair dry. After nestling him with pillows on the bed, I dressed again and made up two bottles with the Similac. Placing the blankets inside the bathtub, I set the bottles on the blanket. He was falling asleep as I lay him down in the tub.
He began to cry while I put on my shoes and shouldered my satchel. The crying became more intense, and I turned but didn’t stop. I opened the front door quietly and stepped outside.
Rain was falling, and I could still hear him. Rubbing the side of my aching head, I closed the door and stepped off the covered porch. I crossed the barren parking lot. While I walked the shoulder of the road, a logging truck rushed past, sending up a low filthy spray.
MY MIND made great strides at clearing with a high intake of sugar. I chewed Ding-Dongs and Ho-Hos and Sno-Balls while rolling a cart along the four aisles of the small market. I kept the cellophane wrappers to pay for the cakes when
I was done.
“You failed, you failed,” was repeating in my head like a skipping record.
I had gotten no closer to saving Luscious than hearing her voice on that kitchen phone.
The words became a chant in my brain.
“You failed, you failed, you failed…”
It was a pounding accusation.
I had to stop it.
“I’ll find another way!” I yelled back.
“What was that?” was called from the front of the store.
I struggled with what to do next. Notify the police? Tell them about Luscious and her captivity? Turn in the old man as well? Each thought was like a spike through the residue of the drug in my blood and mind.
I rolled the shopping cart slowly up the aisle. It was half full when I added a cowboy hat, some Vienna sausages, six cans of cola, and a map from the front of the store.
The woman at the cash register pulled my stuff along the counter and rang it up. She glanced at me one time, took in my goggles, and asked, “What’s your name, kid?”
“BB Danser,” I replied.
“Oh. Got yourself a stutter?”
I had no idea what she was talking about and didn’t reply.
“Interesting sunglasses.”
“Corrective lenses.”
I paid her and stood just inside the door looking out at the rain and wondering how I was going to carry the three brown bags.
THE BABY lay in the blankets, no longer crying, breathing in short breaths. He had a corner of a washcloth in his hands. He made a few sounds. Some were serious and some sounded like laughter. Later, he slept to the lullaby of the falling rain and the wet sweeping sound of big tires.
“What do I do with you?” I whispered to the bathroom.
No reply.
“What do I do now?”
The sleeping infant was no help. I got up from the bed and went to him.
He awoke, whelping before opening his eyes. His cry was weak, just little pulls of air surrounded by whimpers. His feet pedaled a few times. His hands reached out. He began to cry in earnest but stopped when I lifted him from the tub.
We lay side by side on the bed with my back against the headboard and the cowboy hat lowered, so it rode just over the goggles. Also on the bed were candy wrappers and infant outfits, an open box of diapers, and empty sausage tins. The room was nice and warm, and the rain provided perfect insulation. The satchel was at my side, and I had the letters from Luscious in my lap.
I reread the graphic promises and pleas for rescue. I studied the map. I went through her three letters slowly, thinking about a second attempt at rescue. My head swam with 3D images of the last twenty-four or so hours. I decided a nap might help with the headache and kill the memories. The baby’s deep slumber was attractive, and I wanted some of the same.
Leaning back, I tilted the brim of the cowboy hat and covered the goggles completely.
I tried for sleep, but it alluded me.
Reaching to turn off the lamp, I saw a green envelope on the nightstand. I hadn’t noticed it before.
I sat up and pulled the envelope over. My name was scrawled across the front in bold handwriting I didn’t recognize.
I opened the envelope slowly.
There were two bus tickets and a letter. I unfolded the sheet of Luscious’s stationery. The message was not in her handwriting.
Mister BB Danser,
You failed.
You and the other boys and girls were scammed.
Your “Luscious” is a thirty-six-year-old woman with severe mental problems, to say the least. I stopped you. I’ve stopped most of the others. Enclosed are two bus tickets. I’m not sure if the infant needs one or not. I found your address in your bag, and the fare will get you close to your home.
If you have thoughts of attempting another rescue, stop them.
This is your opportunity to perform a real rescue. Rescue the baby. Rescue him from his mother, that rampaging nightmare of a woman who has harmed—and worse—more than a few of your fellow comic readers.
Save the child.
Be a hero.
I’ll deal with “Luscious.”
It wasn’t signed.
MY PLANS to rescue Luscious were destroyed. And I had been duped as they say in True Detective.
“A thirty-six-year-old woman?” the words were sour bile in my throat.
“Not only tricked but also a failure,” I told the sleeping baby.
I folded up the letter from the old man and slid it and her three letters inside my satchel.
Looking at the tiny boy, a new recording began to play in my head.
“Be a hero, be a hero…”
A new idea began to form, melting away some of the icy pain of the disastrous end to my long-dreamed saving of Luscious.
“I’m going to rescue you,” I told the helpless baby.
THE BABY supplies and clothing all fit into a single pillowcase. I placed a twenty on the nightstand to cover for the mess in the sink and the vomit on the carpet and the pillowcase and blanket I was taking. I decided not to ask about payment for the room because, as best I knew, I hadn’t rented it.
I fed the baby some jar food of yams and mixed green vegetables. After I cleaned and diapered him, we played until he whelped for a bottle. While he sucked himself to a calm, I bundled him in a blanket, shouldered my satchel, picked up the pillowcase, and left the room.
Looking out into the rain at a passing car, I adjusted my hold on the baby and the pillowcase. I started off to my right toward the lights of town.
A few doors down the wooden walkway, a beautiful young girl about my age was holding an open, clear plastic umbrella. Her eyes were puffy and aimed across the two-lane road to the field and hills beyond. She wore a flowery dress under a bulky, blue coat.
She was speaking or chewing. I couldn’t tell, but either way, she was making no sense. She wore gray wool socks and old boots. Her hand extended out into the rain where it trembled. She didn’t seem to notice my footsteps. She was grinning at the water on her skin. A trail of drool fell from the corner of her lips. She appeared to be heavily drugged.
I walked closer, looking at her lovely, unblinking gaze.
She turned to me. I stopped, and she extended her rain-moistened hand.
“Where am I?” her voice was slurred.
“Near Greenland,” I answered.
It appeared to mean nothing to her.
She turned her striking eyes to me and seemed duly pleased with what she saw.
“Can you help me?” she asked. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
I adjusted my hold on the baby boy. Her fingertips rose and brushed my brow. Her touch was gentle, and I felt my heart fill with wonder.
“Yes,” I answered. “An escape.”
Her damp fingers brushed down my temple to my cheek. I saw her first smile, a small twist of relief, loopy from the drugs.
She tilted her umbrella over and above my head. She leaned and pressed her head on my shoulder. I breathed from her hair, a faint flowery scent.
Looking down, I saw the edge of a green envelope in the pocket of her big coat. We had both chased a fool’s dream. Her hand glided to me, and she took my arm.
After a while, as the bus rolled along, I let her hold the baby.
Pierce
To enter; to penetrate; to make a way
into or through something, as
a pointed instrument does; —
used literally and figuratively.
Scene 8
The three of us got off the bus in Inglewood, California, and I went in search of somewhere for us to stay. I found a one bedroom, third-story furnished apartment five blocks into the rundown edge of town. I paid two weeks in advance.
With the last of the drugs out of her system, I realized the girl had quite a mouth on her. Now that she was safe, she also had a mental list of expectations. Seeing the apartment for the first time, she handed me the baby and viewed the little front room wit
h a cutting eye.
“God strike you stupid? This the best you could do?”
She scowled at the worn furniture and the peeling wallpaper and claimed the bedroom as her own.
“It’s just for a while,” I tried, feeling the sting.
She saw it and stepped close. A hint of a playful smile blinked to me. Her hand cupped my testicles and lifted gently, and my thoughts and hurt dissolved. She turned away and went to the bedroom.
Sitting on the couch with the baby and a jar and spoon, I called to her, “What’s your name?”
“You’ll call me Mother,” carried from the short hall. “And while we’re on the subject of names, the baby is now Pierce.”
The baby and I slept that first night on the ratty couch with him on the inside curve of my body. She came of out her bedroom for breakfast. I told her a little about my former life, which didn’t interest her until she heard “movies” and “Hollywood.”
“You still know some of those people?” she asked, her eyes brightening as the wheels turned in her head.
Finishing her toast and juice, she left the little table. From behind her bedroom door, she called out, “Go get yourself a movie job.”
It was a ten-mile walk each way between Inglewood and the studios, and I made those trips daily, sometimes using my thumb to save some time. On the sixth day, I got a ride on a truck with a carpenter and his Mexican crew, and the next day I started as the gopher and apprentice for this crew constructing exterior sets and props at America’s Pictures.
The carpenter, Johnny John, introduced me to his crew in Spanish explaining my goggles as lentes correctivos. Not that they were interested. That first day was long and hard, and we were stopped three times and moved to different sets. At first, I was dangerous with a hammer, and my lower back felt bent and twisted.
After I walked home that first day, I was greeted with, “What movie stars did you see?”