Random Road

by Thomas Kies

  “Was the owner asleep?” I wondered aloud, thinking that nine was pretty early to be hitting the hay. The story was still pedestrian.

  Mike took his time. “What makes this story worth your while, darling, is that the woman who chased the robber away is blind.”

  It hit me. “The reason the condo was dark.”

  Mike raised his eyebrows. “She chased the punk out of there with a chisel. Want her phone number?”

  What are you kidding? Mike was right. A blind woman chasing a burglar out of her home? Hell, yeah.

  “Sure.”

  “Going to tell me who your source is?” He handed me a slip of paper with the phone number on it.

  “Honest to God, Mike, even if I wanted to, I can’t. I lost him. Ran off in the night.

  “Okay.” He sounded satisfied with that.

  “I’ll pick up the tab for your iced tea, though, how’s that?”

  He smiled again. “I’ll tell you what, how about you buy me a drink some night?”

  I frowned at him. He’s always flirted with me, but it never went much further than being playful. “I stopped drinking. You know that.”

  He stood up and tossed some money down on the table. As he started to walk away, he used a hint of sarcasm. “If you ever start again, let me know.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I got to the hospital just before noon. Before I got out of my car I studied the big brick building. Staring back at me were countless windows and the dark, double glass doors of the lobby.

  How many people have gotten bad news in that building? How many people have died?

  I shook my head. I couldn’t be thinking that way. Focus on how many people have been cured, gotten better, and made whole again.

  Glass half-full or half-empty…doesn’t matter as long as it’s vodka.

  Deep down, I wanted to believe that whatever was wrong with Kevin was minor. Worst-case scenario, they put him on some medication and we’d still grab a late dinner and a drink tonight once I was done with my shift. Continue with our lives, never miss a beat.

  I shook off whatever sense of dread lingered and got out of the Sebring.

  Walking into his hospital room on the third floor, I was pleasantly surprised to find Kevin lying in bed, covered up to his chest by a sheet, his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes studying the television. I noticed that there were flowers in a vase off to one side of the small room on a counter and a “Get Well Soon” balloon tied to the aluminum side of the hospital bed. The flowers weren’t fragrant enough to ward off the pervasive scent of ethyl alcohol and ammonia that permeates a hospital room.

  Ruth was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m going to be your nurse this morning. Are you ready for your sponge bath?”

  He winked and put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he warned, pointing his thumb toward a curtain hanging next to his bed. “I have a roommate.”

  I peeked around the curtain and, sure enough, there was another man lying in a bed on the other side of it. Like Kevin, he was covered by a thin sheet, but he looked to be in his late eighties and fast asleep. He had an IV dripping into his arm and his eyes were closed. But for his regular breathing, he could have been dead.

  “Does that mean the sponge bath is out?” I whispered.

  He grinned. “Not only do I have a roommate,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, “but Caroline and Ruth will be back in a few minutes. They just went down to the cafeteria to get me coffee and something to eat. I’m starving.”

  “Coffee, huh? You must be feeling better. Why don’t we stop on the way home? There’s a Starbucks on the way. I can take you home, you know. Ruth doesn’t have to do it.”

  I bent over and kissed him on the forehead.

  He reached up and gently pulled my head down, my lips finding his. We kissed long and hard.

  When we were done, I stayed close to him and looked into his eyes. “Wow, you seem pretty healthy to me. You can leave, right? They didn’t find anything seriously wrong, did they?”

  He took my hand and squeezed it. “They’re not done yet.”

  I looked at him and frowned. “More tests?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Yeah, more tests.”

  Cold, butterfly wings of fear were starting to flutter in my chest. “What are they looking for?”

  He took a breath. “They want to see how much of my liver is still functioning.”

  My arms and legs went numb. “How much of your liver is functioning?”

  He shrugged. “I never took real good care of it.”

  “How serious is this?”

  He waved his hand. “It’s nothing.”

  “What have you told Caroline?”

  “At this point there’s nothing to tell. Ruth knows, but I didn’t see any point in spooking Caroline.”

  I wanted to say something else, ask more questions, but I heard Ruth and Caroline coming through the doorway. Aunt Ruth was holding a steaming Styrofoam cup in each hand when she spotted me. She stopped for a moment, searching into my eyes, trying to discern how much I knew.

  It only took her a second to realize that Kevin had already told me everything.

  “Stupid cafeteria didn’t have any lids for the cups. I must have scalded my hands a dozen times coming up in the elevator.”

  “Genie!” Caroline exclaimed happily, rushing up to give me a hug.

  Feeling her arms around my shoulders was a pleasant surprise. I hugged her back.

  Ruth gave one of the cups to Kevin who sipped at it gratefully.

  “Should you be having coffee, Daddy?” Caroline held out a paper bag.

  I wondered the same thing.

  He gave her a “who-gives-a-crap” look and waved it off. “Coffee’s the best thing for me. I read it in the latest Journal of American Medicine. What’s in the bag?”

  “Cherry Danish.” She waved the bag at him.

  Kevin took the bag from his daughter’s hand and slowly opened it. Then he smiled and tore off the corner of his pastry and put it into his mouth.

  I noticed that, in spite of claiming to be hungry, he was chewing with a lot more deliberation than when he’d eaten his breakfast yesterday at Flap Jacks.

  “So,” I asked, “when are they going to let you outa here?”

  “Not sure, but they said they’d do the last test sometime this afternoon. They said it’s simple enough. I can go home when they’re done.”

  “Hey, look, how about if I call in sick?” I suggested. “That way I can drive you home when it’s over.”

  Ruth jumped in, “I’ll drive him home.” Her voice was definitely definitive.

  Kevin reached out and took my hand. “Tell you what. Let Ruth drive me home and then, if you get off a little early, maybe you and I can grab a bite to eat?”

  “I’d like that.” I leaned down and kissed him again on the lips. “Call me if you hear anything, okay?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  I hugged Caroline again and nodded at Ruth who, to my surprise, followed me out the door and into the hallway.

  When we were out of earshot, Ruth asked, “Kevin told you?”

  I nodded.

  “I think it’s best if we don’t tell Caroline,” Ruth continued. “There’s no point in alarming her until we know for sure.”

  “Until we know what for sure?”

  “That it’s catastrophic liver failure.” Her voice cracked, her eyes reddened.

  “Who said anything about catastrophic liver failure?” I shot back.

  “Well, I pray that it’s not,” Ruth whispered. “It wouldn’t be fair. Not to Kevin and not to Caroline. She’s still not recovered from Joanna’s death.”

  “So Kevin’s told me.”

  She shook her head very quickly. “Even
Kevin doesn’t know how bad it is. Caroline helps him shop. She helps him cook. She helps him keep house. She’s trying to fill the void that Joanna left after she died. Caroline wants to be perfect, more than perfect for her father, more perfect than any daughter can ever be. She’s taken it to the extreme. On top of which, Caroline has an eating disorder. Did you know she’s bulimic?”

  Was that why she never gains an ounce even though she’s constantly eating?

  I could feel the anger rising as I looked at Ruth. “Kevin doesn’t know?” I asked incredulously.

  “I’ve been taking Caroline secretly to a doctor, a specialist that I’m paying for. She says that Caroline is making progress. I’m concerned that if anything is seriously wrong with Kevin, then Caroline is just going to completely spiral out of control.”

  “You haven’t told Kevin that you’re taking his daughter to a doctor?”

  “I don’t want him to worry. And he doesn’t have the money. He’s proud and he can be pig-headed.”

  Yeah, but not telling Kevin isn’t right.

  “What makes you think Caroline is bulimic?”

  Her cheeks colored crimson as she answered, “Because, I’d suspected for months that there might be something wrong with her. Then one night, back in May when I was having dinner at Kevin’s house, he went into the kitchen to get us all some ice cream. Caroline excused herself to use the bathroom. I followed her and listened at the door.”

  Nosy bitch.

  “I could hear her in there, throwing up. Purging, that’s what they call it,” Ruth continued in a quiet voice. “I confronted her when she came out of the bathroom. She lied and told me her stomach was upset.”

  “What makes you think she was lying?”

  Ruth stared at me. “I can always tell when someone is lying to me. I told her that I had to tell her father. She begged me not to. Caroline doesn’t want to disappoint Kevin. She told me that if I said anything to him she’d kill herself.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Yes, I could see the defiance in her face. I’ve seen the same expression on Kevin. I told Caroline that if she saw a doctor, a therapist, I wouldn’t say anything to her dad.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “She’s been making good progress. She’s starting to gain back a little weight and she’s looking healthy again.” Ruth stopped and slowly shook her head. “But I’m worried.”

  “You think she might relapse?”

  She stared at me with wide eyes. “I think she’s already relapsed. I think she’s purging again.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I’m not stupid, Miss Chase,” she stated. “Neither are you. Look at her. There’s no color in her face and her weight’s dropping.”

  “Is this recent?”

  “Very recent.” Ruth’s lips were drawn tight. “It started again when Kevin brought you into his house.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Now, I’m acquainted with guilt.

  The afternoon that my dad slid his Harley-Davidson under the trailer of a jackknifing truck, the afternoon he died, he was on his way to my high school. Mrs. Bowler, my math teacher, had caught me and Mary Sue Wilcox smoking a joint in the girl’s room and the principal wanted to see both of our parents or else we’d be expelled.

  Danny Allen was the one who ratted us out, the same boy who’d beaten Kevin so badly on my first day at the school, years ago. He told me he did it to get even for me taking Kevin’s side that day.

  Who would have thought he’d hold a silly grudge for so long?

  If it hadn’t been for that, my dad wouldn’t have been where he was when that Saab cut off the truck and it went out of control. If it hadn’t been for me pissing off Danny Allen or smoking a joint in the girl’s room, my dad might be alive today. If…if…if.

  More than once, in the throes of the medication her doctors prescribed for her depression, my mother told me that. “If it hadn’t been for you…if it hadn’t been for you.”

  I drove away from the hospital in a haze, considering what I’d just seen and heard. Kevin was getting tested to see how much of his liver was functioning. The question was—how much of it was already dead?

  And what about Ruth’s accusation that Caroline was bulimic and it was my fault? What was that based on—one of Ruth’s Truths? It was obvious she hated me. She’d lie to me.

  But, despite my best efforts, both of those monstrously nasty prospects kept sneaking into my thoughts like snakes crawling under an old barn wall.

  Knowing that Kevin was lying in that bed waiting to hear if he was about to face the fight of his life, and the possibility that Caroline was facing a psychological struggle that I might have triggered, yeah, I felt guilty as hell.

  Yes, I’m acquainted with guilt.

  I needed a drink. The digital clock in my dashboard told me that it was only a little after noon and it was too early, even for me, to be sitting in a dark bar somewhere hunched over a vodka rocks.

  Better that I drink alone at home.

  So I drove back to my apartment and poured myself an Absolut on ice. While Tucker sat at my feet and enjoyed my quiet company, I leaned against the counter in the kitchen and sipped my drink. The more I sipped, the better I felt.

  Halfway through the vodka, I recalled what my third husband, Sal, had once said. “When you drink, you’re trying to run away from something. But you know what? You’re always carrying that baggage around. Your responsibilities are still waiting for you in the morning, the bad guys are still running the country, and the monster’s still hiding under the bed.”

  Of all of my husbands, Sal probably knew me the best.

  I wanted that drink in my hand. Right at that moment it was my best friend. I was really worried about Kevin. I was really worried about Caroline. Hell, I was worried about me.

  The monster was, indeed, still hiding under the bed.

  ***

  While I sipped my second Absolut, I called the number that Mike Dillon had given me. The blind woman who’d chased a robber out of her home answered the phone. I told her who I was and asked if I could stop by to interview her. She hesitated for only a moment before she said yes, but only if I could stop by right away. Her daughter was coming to pick her up in an hour to take her to Cape Cod.

  I didn’t mind. I needed to stay busy. If I stayed home I would get hammered.

  On my way over to Briar Avenue, I was envisioning a woman in her sixties, slightly overweight but sturdy, liked to knit, and loved listening to Lake Woebegone. But still spunky enough to chase off a burglar.

  The woman who answered the door was nothing like that at all.

  She was tall, lean, and in her early fifties. Her shoulder-length black hair was flecked with random strands of gray. She wore no makeup but didn’t need any. She was attractive in an exotic way. Her facial features mixed Mediterranean and Middle Eastern with high cheekbones, distinct eyebrows, a patrician nose, and full lips. I guessed that most men would find this woman irresistible.

  There was only one flaw in her appearance. Her eyes were covered with a milky-white membrane.

  When the door to her condo swung open, I said, “Hi, I’m Geneva Chase, from The Sheffield Post.”

  It was a bit disconcerting to watch her cock her head to listen, not looking at me but in the vague direction of my words. “I’m Isadora Orleans.” Her voice low and smoky. “Would you like to come in out of the heat?”

  She had a slight accent that I couldn’t identify, Greek or perhaps Turkish.

  “I’m sorry I made you come over so quickly.” She waved me into the living room. “But my daughter is arriving in a few minutes. She’s taking me to my brother’s house in Chatham. It’s lovely there. I can hear the ocean, smell the sea breeze, and I love the crabcakes and chowder.”

  She had a beautiful smile.

/>   “I love Cape Cod,” I said.

  Isadora nodded and closed the door. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air. I’ve heard that, because of the lack of sight, a blind person can develop the other senses to incredible heights. I wondered if this woman knew that I’d already had a couple of drinks. I was hoping that I’d covered my breath with a handful of breath mints.

  “It’s a little early for me.”

  She frowned. “I’m going to have one. I have some Stolichnaya in the freezer. I’ll pour you some.”

  Oh, okay.

  This would make my third drink and it wasn’t even one o’clock. I’d have to make sure that I stopped off to get something to eat before I went into the office.

  “It would be rude if I refused.”

  She smiled again. “Yes, rude.”

  While Isadora disappeared into the kitchen, I scanned the apartment. I was pleased to see that the curtains were wide open and the place was flooded with sunlight. I wasn’t surprised to see that the room was spartan—an overstuffed chair and a leather couch, and an entertainment center holding a television and a stereo. No bookcases, no coffee tables, nothing with hard, sharp corners that a blind woman might trip over if she lost her concentration.

  What was startling, however, was the large easel that dominated the center of the room. And the dozens of dark paintings that sat on the hardwood floor, leaning against the walls.

  I stepped up to the easel to see a work in progress. It was three-dimensional. Upon closer inspection, I saw that it wasn’t a canvas but a panel of wood, several inches thick, with abstract, flowing designs carved into its surface.

  I walked over to the wall closest to me and squatted down to look at what I’d thought were paintings. None of them were actually canvases. Intricate designs had been carved into panels of oak, cherry, and walnut and then exquisitely stained. They were mesmerizing. Like peering into a dark, dreamlike waterscape, the wood grain random, yet somehow familiar, depicting an image that was just beyond my grasp, just on the far edge of my imagination.