by Allen Eskens
“You do understand that this is a nursing home, don't you?” Mrs. Lorngren asked.
“That's why I came here,” I said. “You have people who've lived through amazing times.”
“That's true,” she said, leaning into the countertop that separated us. From up close, I could see the wrinkles that branched out from the corners of her eyes and creased her lips like a dry lake bed. And I could smell the faint aroma of scotch in the stream of her words as she spoke. She continued in a lowered voice. “Residents live here because they cannot take care of themselves. Most of them are suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia or some other neurological condition. They can't remember their own children, much less the details of their lives.”
I hadn't thought of that. I could see my plan starting to falter. How could I write the biography of a war hero if the hero can't remember what he did? “Don't you have anybody with a memory?” I asked, sounding more pitiful than I would have liked.
“We could let him talk to Carl,” Janet piped up.
Mrs. Lorngren shot Janet a glance akin to the glare you'd give a buddy who'd just screwed up your perfectly good lie.
“Carl?” I asked.
Mrs. Lorngren crossed her arms and stepped back from the counter.
I pushed on. “Who's Carl?”
Janet looked to Mrs. Lorngren for approval. When Mrs. Lorngren finally nodded, Janet took her turn leaning across the countertop. “His name is Carl Iverson. He's a convicted murderer,” she said, whispering like a schoolgirl telling a story out of turn. “The Department of Corrections sent him here about three months ago. They paroled him from Stillwater because he's dying of cancer.”
Mrs. Lorngren huffed and said, “Apparently, pancreatic cancer is a perfectly reasonable substitute for penal rehabilitation.”
“He's a murderer?” I asked.
Janet glanced around to be sure that she wouldn't be overheard. “Thirty years ago he raped and murdered this fourteen-year-old girl,” she whispered. “I read all about it in his file. After he was done killing her, he tried to hide the evidence by burning her body in his tool shed.”
A rapist and a murderer. I had come to Hillview looking for a hero and instead I'd found a villain. He would certainly have a story to tell, but was it a story I wanted to write? While my classmates would turn out tales of Grandma giving birth on a dirt floor, or Grandpa seeing John Dillinger in a hotel lobby, I would be writing about a man who raped and killed a girl and then burned her body in a shed. The idea of interviewing a murderer didn't sit well with me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I warmed up to it. I had put off starting this project for too long. September was almost over and I'd have to turn in my interview notes in a few weeks. My classmates had their horses out of the starting gate and my nag was still back in the barn munching on hay. Carl Iverson would have to be my subject—if he agreed.
“I think I'd like to interview Mr. Iverson,” I said.
“The man is a monster,” Mrs. Lorngren said. “I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I know this isn't a Christian thing to say, but it would be best if he just stayed in his room and passed on quietly.” Mrs. Lorngren recoiled at her own words, words a person might think, but must never say out loud, especially in front of a stranger.
“Look,” I said, “if I can do his story, maybe…I don't know…maybe I can get him to admit the error of his ways.” I was a salesman after all, I thought to myself. “Besides, he has a right to have visitors, too, doesn't he?”
Mrs. Lorngren looked cornered. She had no choice. Carl wasn't a prisoner at Hillview; he was a resident with the same right to have visitors as anyone else. She unfolded her arms, placing her hands once more on the countertop between us. “I'll have to ask him if he wants a visitor,” she said. “In the few months that he's been here, he's only had one visitor come to see him.”
“Can I talk to Carl myself?” I said. “Maybe I can—”
“Mr. Iverson.” Mrs. Lorngren corrected me, eager to regain her superiority.
“Of course.” I shrugged an apology. “I could explain to Mr. Iverson what the assignment is about, and maybe—”
A jingling of electronic chimes from my cell phone interrupted me. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I thought I shut it off.” My ears turned red as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and saw my mother's number. “Excuse me,” I said, turning my back to Janet and Mrs. Lorngren with the pretense of acquiring privacy.
“Mom, I can't talk now, I—”
“Joey, you gotta come get me,” my mother screeched into the phone, the drunken slur in her voice melding her words together, making them hard to understand.
“Mom, I have to—”
“They fucking handcuffed me.”
“What? Who—”
“They arrested me Joey…they…those pricks. I'm gonna sue ‘em. I'll get the baddest fucking lawyer.” She yelled her words at someone near her. “You hear me you…you prick! I want your badge number. I'll have your job.”
“Mom, where are you?” I spoke loud and slow, trying to get my mother's attention back.
“They put me in handcuffs, Joey.”
“Is there an officer there?” I asked. “Can I talk to him?”
She ignored my question and spiraled from one unintelligible thought to another. “If you loved me you'd come get me. I'm your fucking mother god dammit. They handcuffed…Get your ass…You never loved me. I did…I didn't…I should just cut my wrists. No one loves me. I was almost home…I'm gonna sue.”
“Okay, Mom,” I said. “I'll come get you, but I need to talk to the cop.”
“You mean Mr. Prick?”
“Yeah, Mom. Mr. Prick. I need to talk to Mr. Prick. Just give him the phone for a second, then I'll come get you.”
“Fine,” she said. “Here, Prick. Joey wants to talk to you.”
“Ms. Nelson,” the officer said, “this is your time to contact an attorney, not your son.”
“Hey, Officer Prick, Joey wants to talk to you.”
The officer sighed. “You said that you wanted to talk to an attorney. You need to use this time to call an attorney.”
“Officer Prick won't talk to you.” Mom belched into the phone.
“Mom, tell him I said please.”
“Joey you gotta—”
“Dammit, Mom,” I yelled my whisper, “tell him I said please.”
A moment of silence, and then, “fine!” My mom turned the phone away so that I could barely hear her. “Joey says please.”
There was a long pause, but then the officer got on the phone. “Hello.”
I spoke quickly and quietly. “Officer, I'm sorry about all this, but I have a brother who's autistic. He lives with my mom. I need to know if my mom's getting released today because if she's not, I gotta go take care of my brother.”
“Well, here's the deal. Your mother's been arrested for DUI.” I could hear my mother cursing and wailing in the background. “I have her at the Mower County Law Enforcement Center to give a breath test. She invoked her right to call an attorney before taking the test, so she's supposed to be using this time to contact an attorney, not calling you to come get her out.”
“I understand,” I said. “I just need to know if she's getting released tonight.”
“That would be no.” The officer limited his response in a way that my mother would not hear what was in store for her. I played along.
“Is she going to detox?”
“Yes.”
“How many days?”
“Between two and three.”
“Then she'll be released?” I asked.
“No.”
I thought for a moment. “From detox to jail?”
“That is correct, until she makes her first appearance in court.”
Mom heard the word “court” and began to yell again. In her inebriation and exhaustion, her words swung and lurched like a decrepit rope bridge. “Dammit Joey…get down here. You don't love me…you ungrateful…I'm your mother. Jo
ey, they…they…get down here. Get me out.”
“Thanks,” I said to the officer. “I really appreciate the help. And good luck dealing with my mom.”
“Good luck to you, too,” he said.
I ended the call and turned back around to see Janet and Mrs. Lorngren looking at me like I was a toddler who had just learned that dogs can bite. “I'm sorry about that,” I said. “My mother…she's…not well. I'm not going to be able to meet Carl—uh, Mr. Iverson—today. I have to take care of something.”
Mrs. Lorngren's eyes softened, her stern expression dissolving into sympathy. “That's fine,” she said. “I'll talk to Mr. Iverson about you. Leave your name and number with Janet and I'll let you know if he is agreeable to meet with you.”
“I really appreciate that,” I said. I wrote my information on a piece of paper. “I might have my phone turned off for a while, so if I don't answer, just leave a message and let me know what Mr. Iverson says.”
“I will,” Mrs. Lorngren said.
A block away from Hillview, I pulled into a parking lot, gripped the steering wheel with all my strength, and shook it violently. “God dammit!” I yelled. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Why can't you just leave me alone!” My knuckles turned white, and I trembled as the wave of anger passed through me. I took a deep breath and waited for the throbbing in my throat to subside, for my eyes to clear. Then, once I had calmed down, I called Molly to let her know that I wouldn't be able to work the door. She wasn't happy, but she understood. After I hung up, I tossed the phone on the passenger seat and began the long drive south to get my brother.
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