by Abigail Keam
“I hate ur guts. ’Gonna repor’ ’ou.”
“Call me when you get to the shallow end. You gotta touch the rail.”
I watched my jailer make four long cell phone calls from the patio. I counted them. “Who ’ou callin’?” I called out.
“None of your beeswax, missy. Now, if you push yourself to the end of the pool, I’ll take you out to dinner. I’ll dress you in a pretty muumuu and set you up in your new wheelchair and take you out for a spin. Whadja’ say? I am bored stiff with my own cooking. Let’s go out. If you behave, I’ll watch one of those crappy old movies that you love so much after dinner.”
He knew what I was thinking. “Your face doesn’t look that bad. I’ve got some really strong makeup that will cover up those marks. I don’t understand why you won’t look in the mirror. It’s really not that severe.”
I took my time to speak clearly. “I’m jus not ready to see what I’ve ’come ’et. Understand?” I shyly fingered the red welts criss-crossing my face.
“A year from now those welts and cuts will be faded. You won’t be able to tell that your face was injured.”
I gave a Mona Lisa smile, which was all the movement that I was capable of at the moment, but I didn’t believe Jake. But for his sake, I would try.
It took an hour and a half, but we finally made it to the restaurant on White Street. I had garlic mashed potatoes, applesauce and a virgin appletini through a long straw Jake brought with him.
To my surprise, I realized that I liked being pushed in a wheelchair and having people open doors for me. It made me think I was Lionel Barrymore in the movie Key Largo. I sure wasn’t Lauren Bacall.
3
A few days later, I was doing my therapy of dog paddling around in the pool, as Jake had fired all the physical therapists, when Franklin casually sauntered out from the house and stood grinning at me. It took me a moment to recognize my friend who had been shot by O’nan that awful night of the policeman’s attack. Yelping for joy, I made big splashes rushing towards him. “What ’ou doing here?” I was still having trouble with my y sounds.
He trudged down the pool steps, and after giving me a big sloppy kiss, said, “I went back to work too early and reinjured myself.” He patted his shoulder. “I pulled something inside, so I am here to recuperate with you, if that’s okay?”
“Okay? It’s fantastic! What a wonnerful surprise.” I pressed his hand against my cheek and then remembering my ruined face, pulled away.
Franklin took no notice. “I brought your mail. You’ve got tons of it – cards, letters, notes, even all the newspaper articles about what happened. Matt has saved every scrap of paper about us. We’re famous. People buy me drinks at the bars. I got a bonus at work. I think it was a sympathy bonus, but who cares. It’s money.”
“I can’t wait to ree all of tem, but tell me how are ’ou, really?”
“As well as can be expected. The bullet went through the soft tissue. No serious damage like . . . well, I’ll heal okay. I had a cute doctor who flirted with me while I was in the hospital. Even Shaneika is sweet when she sees me.”
“Did she bi ’er horse?”
“Oh, my gawd, is he a bruiser.” Franklin playfully grabbed my arm, causing me to yelp. “Sorry there, old girl, I forgot. You’re just put together with a little bit of glue and thread, aren’t you.”
“It’s okay, Franklin. I’m doin’ fine.”
“Really? Because that Gestapo commandant who takes care of you called Matt, and said you were seriously depressed . . . like you might imitate a Norman Maine swim.”
“Wouldn’t tat be life im . . . tating art?”
“It would be life imitating A Star Is Born – every gay man’s fantasy.”
“No, just ’our gay Judy Garland fantasy,” I laughed.
“Matt and I decided that you are going to die an ancient lady in bed with us watching you take your last gasp. Anything other than that, it is unthinkable. Besides where can Matt live where the rent is so great?”
“There is no rent.”
“Like I said, where can he live where the rent is so great.”
“’Ow’s Matt?”
Franklin fingered the hem of the muumuu which I now wore every day, even when swimming. “Okay, I guess. He wallows in guilt, but I tell him there was nothing he could have done.”
“Really?”
“Matt’s not Matt anymore. He hardly talks to me. When he’s not at work, which is eighty hours a week just about, he putters on that crappy cottage and your house – like frantic. Says he needs to fix everything before you come home.”
“Want me to talk with him?” I asked, alarmed.
“No, please don’t. Just get well, Josiah. Really well and come home. Then everything will work out.”
I pounded on my legs in frustration. “If I just wasn’t still in that chair, I could be of more use,” I said, glancing at the wheelchair waiting patiently for me at the pool’s edge.
“But ya are, Blanche. Ya are in that chair!” cried Franklin from the iconic scene in What Ever Happened To Baby Jane.
I made a face. “Have ’ou been waiting to use that line?”
“Ever since I knew you were in a wheelchair. Come on, you gotta admit it was a pretty good Bette Davis and you make a good Joan Crawford.”
“It was scary.”
“It was good.”
“It was creepy.”
“It sounded just like Bette Davis. Sorry, but did you lose your sense of play in the accident? Hmmmm? Was it yanked out of your ass by mistake?”
“Okay, Franklin. It was good. Just like Davis. Now, did ’ou bring honey from home?” I didn’t want to explain that most things were not funny now. I was too busy waving off flashbacks of O’nan shooting my mastiff, Baby and me falling off the cliff with him – screaming.
“Gobs and gobs of it. What are you doing with all that honey we keep sending?”
“Eat it. Put on my wounds. Helps me heal faster and lessens the scars.”
“Isn’t it sticky?”
“Bandages absorbs honey first . . . and think it’s time bandages . . . changed.” I looked around for Jake.
“No, wait. Josiah, I’ve got something else important to tell you.” He gently held both my hands. “Now brace yourself. Did anyone talk to you about Baby?”
I stopped smiling. “Baby . . . never mentioned. Don’t want to know.”
“Well, I’ve got a good surprise for you. Let him go, Jake,” called Franklin, watching my expression.
Jake nodded and smiling, opened the patio door, calling to someone inside. Out through the door lumbered something that looked like a bewildered, tawny lion.
“Call to him, Josiah,” said Franklin. “Let him hear your voice.”
“Ba . . . Baby?” I cried, my voice cracking. “Baby, Baby!” I looked towards Franklin. “But ’ow?”
Franklin didn’t get a chance to explain as Baby turned to the sound of my voice and saw me struggling to get out of the pool. “Baby, come ’ere.”
Recognition dawned on the mastiff as he sniffed the air. Hurrying to the side of the pool, he ferociously barked. Jake rushed to help me out of the pool, but Baby, ignoring his dislike of water, brushed Jake aside with his massive body, trying to climb down the pool steps. Rushing to meet him, I threw my arms around the thick neck of fawn fur and began to sob loudly. I cried as though a great stream of pain coursing through my body found an outlet through my eyes. I cried for all that I had been through – the murder investigation, the loss of my meager savings, that awful night when O’nan attacked and I fell with him over the cliff, the physical pain I had had to endure since then, my ruined body. I cried because I missed my late husband. I cried for Tellie, Richard’s abused wife. I even cried for that jerk, Richard Pidgeon.
Through my hysterics, Baby patiently stood until I noticed his limbs were starting to quiver. “Sit, Baby, sit. Let me look at ’ou.” Baby gratefully sat with his massive tongue drooping from his mouth, drooling thick saliva
on me. I explored him with my hands and eyes. “Oh Baby,” I sighed upon discovering his injuries. Baby had only one good eye and an ugly scar creased the right side of his skull. Another scar marred his fur on the underside of his carriage. “’Ou lucky, lucky dog,” I said, giving him another hug. I glanced fondly at Franklin. “He’s so big.”
“He weighs about one hundred fifty-five currently. Because of his injuries, the vet doesn’t know if he’ll reach the regular two hundred pounds. He limps somewhat, but the one eye doesn’t seem to slow him down.” Franklin rubbed Baby’s massive head. Baby turned his drooling tongue towards Franklin, licked him and slurped. He began panting in the hot Florida sun. Baby, not Franklin.
“You can thank Officer Kelly for saving Baby. Kelly was among the first cops to arrive and found Baby in the pantry. He got one of the paramedics to stabilize Baby until he could rush him to his own vet – a buddy of his. Josiah, Kelly has paid all of Baby’s vet bills and kept him after he was released. He even took him to obedience school, but Baby doesn’t know any commands cause he’s dumb as a rock. Yes, he is. Yes, he is,” Franklin said in baby talk, as he scratched Baby behind an ear.
Baby whimpered for more.
Franklin laughed. “You know how Kelly loves dogs, but he could never get Baby to bond with him.” Franklin patted my shoulder. “Baby loves you, Josiah. He needs to be with you, so I brought him. Besides, he’s eating the Kelly family into bankruptcy.”
Franklin’s statements only induced another wave of crying until an anxious neighbor called across the fence and asked if there was anything wrong.
Seeing that I was emotionally exhausted and wrung out, Jake ordered me to bed. He lowered it so Baby could climb on as well. Baby began licking his paws as I threw my arm over him. Usually restless with a few hours here and there of catnapping, I slept the sleep of angels until I awoke to the friendly patter of Jake and Franklin starting the grill. Baby’s massive legs and paws hung over the bedside while he snored contently. I listened to Baby’s soft grunts, the guys laughing, and the rhythmic ebb and flow of the ocean’s waves. I felt different – better, like something inside had been mended a tiny bit. I could hope again.
4
The next four weeks I busted my butt movin’ and groovin’ to Jake’s unconventional methods of physical therapy. He bought baseball gloves for us and I would catch the ball, or try to, sitting in my wheelchair stationed squarely in the little park down the end of our street. I had to wear a catcher’s mask in case . . . well, I fumbled quite a bit. After several days, kids were joining us for our impromptu workout, leaving their computer games behind.
That particular therapy was accompanied by the game of throwing a shiny penny in the pool. This was Jake’s idea of fun. He’d throw in a penny. I was to fall off my float, dive and get the penny. Nine out of ten times I couldn’t get the coin, but Jake said that was okay. The therapy was in the struggle to get the penny. What can I say. His methods seemed to be working and I wasn’t bored.
When I had regained enough strength, Jake rented a fishing boat and plunged me into the sea attached to a floating harness contraption he had fashioned. If I drifted too far from the boat, Jake would tug on the rope attached to the harness and drag me closer. If I did well, Jake would venture into deeper water the next day.
“Keep treading. Keep moving those legs!” he yelled encouragingly, while munching on thick roast beef sandwiches and slurping cold beer. Once he pulled me out of the sea with one hand when a shark got a little too close, then proceeded to drop me back in when it lost interest and departed. I called Jake some pretty horrible names. He just motioned for me to continue treading while adjusting his Cardinals baseball cap against the blazing sun.
Franklin would either join me snorkeling in the salty water or stay onboard fishing with Jake. Time came when Jake told me to pull myself on board. It took twenty-five minutes and lots of profanity-laced grunts before I managed to haul myself up and flop onto the deck of the boat like a hooked fish. It took me another fifteen minutes struggling to stand while Jake and Franklin sat watching me, trading baseball statistics. That was the day I took my first step since the accident. That was the day I knew I was going to make it back into the land of the living.
News of my recovery made its way back to Lexington. Detective Goetz and the city’s attorney, along with Shaneika Mary Todd, my criminal lawyer, came to Key West to take my deposition regarding my lawsuit against the city. Goetz was all business as Shaneika watched over him like a sparrow hawk hovering over prey. By that time, my memory had recovered for the most part and I gave a sound statement with only a few lapses. The city’s attorney kept asking the same questions over and over again until I complained of numbing weariness.
“You’ve got some pretty smooth explanations,” said the city’s attorney, his voice sounding like a repeating rifle.
“What do ’ou want me to do? Learn how to stutter,” I seethed.
After that, their visit ended shortly, professional and somewhat disappointingly surreal. Goetz acted as though he didn’t know me. I was relieved when they left.
Eventually Franklin had to go back to Lexington, but not before many tears were shed by us both, not that Franklin would ever admit it to anyone. But we would see each other soon. After all, there was only one month left to go on the lease at the Key West house.
*
It was one of those rare cloudy days in Key West when Jake and I got back to the house. The sky was an unbroken canopy of wooly gray clouds. A smoky black line edging the horizon threatened a severe thunderstorm.
I had discovered a shop specializing in Haitian paintings and had purchased three for a song. It was all I could do to climb out of the cab with my new cane, one that Franklin had procured from an antique store while Jake carried my precious paintings, when I spied my Farmers’ Market friend, Irene Meckler, sitting on the porch steps holding an overnight bag.
“For goodness sake, Irene,” I called. “What are ’ou doing here?”
Irene rushed over, enveloping me in a warm hug. “I was just about to give up on you,” she said smiling. “I’ve been waiting here for hours.”
“Well, come on in. Are ’ou staying in a hotel?” I asked, spying her bag.
“You are going to think this forward of me, but I want to stay with you, Josiah.”
“All right. This is Jake. He is . . . uhmm, my handyman.”
Irene gave Jake the once over. “How handy is he, Josiah?” she asked rakishly.
Jake blushed and picked up Irene’s bag after readjusting the paintings under his arms. “I’m her caretaker, so to speak. A physician’s assistant.” He grinned at me. “I make sure Mrs. Reynolds gets her medicine on time and doesn’t drown in the pool – so I guess that is a type of handyman.” He pointed some high-tech thingamabob which caused the front door to swing open.
“He will show ’ou to the guest bedroom and I will see ’ou at dinner. Sorry, dear, but I’m pooped. I need to rest now. We’ll talk after dinner.” We both waited silently as Jake went inside the house and returned a few minutes later, telling us we could enter.
“Handyman, huh,” muttered Irene, following me inside the house.
“My casa, su casa,” I said, ignoring her comment.
“Thank you, honey,” said Irene gratefully. “I know this here’s an inconvenience but I need . . .”
“No apologies, Irene. Just need a nap and then ’ou’ll have my undivided attention.”
Irene nodded and followed Jake down the hallway oohing and ahhing. She was right to make over the house. It was a darn beautiful house; light and airy inside while the outside exhibited exquisite landscaping with just the right amount of seediness to make it fit in with Key West.
I was in the middle of a long nap when Jake woke me. The sky looked very menacing and he wanted to eat before it rained. It took me a while to dress, as I now had to do that myself. I stepped outside barefoot. Shoes were too much of a bother. Dinner was served on the patio, and the three of
us sat down to grilled yellowtail snapper topped with a cold cucumber dill sauce and fresh salad greens dressed with warm honey. Dessert was fresh raspberries over a bed of juicy sliced pears. Of course, my food had been pureed. My gums were still very tender. Jake and Irene had wine while I sipped water spiked with lime juice. Jake put a maraschino cherry in my glass to dress it up.
Irene teased Jake that she would marry him if he would take charge of the household cooking.
“Why marry me then?” asked Jake. “Just hire me on as a cook.”
“’Cause that way, I would have a lifelong interest in you,” kidded Irene, laughing. Underneath the teasing, I thought Irene might be serious.
Jake cleared off the table. While he was in the kitchen, Irene leaned over and asked, “What is Jake?”
“Hey, Jake,” I yelled over my shoulder. “What are ’ou?”
“Choctaw,” replied Jake, poking his head out the kitchen door.
“’Ur people hunt in Kentucky back in the day?”
“Not unless there was a famine. Mostly Shawnee, Cherokees, some Wyandots hunted in Kentucky.”
“I guess no one of ’ur ilk is named after Andrew Jackson.”
“Nope, we pretty much hate his guts. Well, ladies, I am begging off for the night. See you in the morning.”
Irene leaned over and whispered, “I hope we didn’t embarrass him.”
“Why should he be embarrassed about being a Choctaw? I don’t get embarrassed if people ask me if I’m Scandinavian. I like talking about my ancestors. I’m sure he does too.”
“Well, you know, the Indian Removal Act, the Trail of Tears. The fact that so many of them died during that winter.”