by Karen Pullen
Sweet words. Case closed. I thought they only said that on TV.
* * * *
We were all so grateful to the detective, whose name was Jack. Fran gave him a tin of assorted toffee, Connie knitted a stylish black sweater for his bulldog, and Lilac—well, she offered a feather frolic that he gracefully declined, claiming an allergy.
One night, I cooked him dinner, and he was so appreciative that he came back the next morning with tools. Together we ripped up the bloodstained carpeting. A filthy job made tolerable by the way his shoulders moved under his tee shirt.
I offered Jack a beer. “We’re a sight,” I said. Visible grime coated his face and arms.
He tipped the can for a swallow, then another. “A shower would be nice.”
“Use mine, if you like,” I said, glad that I’d put out clean towels that morning.
“Ladies first,” Jack said. “Or, might I join you? You know, for lunch?”
And just like that, I realized that the fourth girl had been here all along.
THE WHITE VAN, by Joanie Conwell
The late afternoon sun stung my eyes as I drove west on I-40, past Greensboro, past Winston-Salem, into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I didn’t know where I’d end up, running like I tended to when things got bad. Mama used to say, “The blues is heritable,” and she was right.
The sun sank low in the sky, rivers of darkness swallowing gold-green hills with no remorse. With the changing light, visions rose like a mist from the highway. Daddy home from war, gripping my small arm as I poured him tea from a china pot. A whisper from the back seat, save me, sugar. Daddy, in his dress blues, hanging slack-jawed from the woodshed rafters out back on the farm. Black shoes polished, clean laces tied in bows, buttons shined.
For a while they thought I’d turn out fine, children resilient as they are. It’s true, I’d done well in school, won a scholarship, left the farm. I traded wire-framed glasses for contact lenses and started wearing makeup. Not too much, just a sweep of mascara here, a dab of tawny liquid there, to mask the brokenness. I dated. Polite boys said I was pretty, gave me roses on Valentine’s Day, and for my birthday, gold-plated necklaces with gemstones or tiny pearls.
Lately, though, I’d taken to avoiding people, like I did right after. I was lonesome by nature. As Mama used to say when I passed through the kitchen after school, “like a train whistle through a graveyard.” Being around folks was worse than being alone. Enough years had gone by that the ones who knew about Daddy, about family matters, I could tell they judged me hard. “Get some help, honey,” they’d say.
I considered the word help, rolling it over with my tongue, wondering what it might entail. The word tasted bitter. Daddy, he’d seen the doctor, taken pills and such…
Swollen clouds hid the first stars, and the sweet-astringent smell of loblolly pines cut the damp of night. My eyelids grew heavy. I pulled into a Waffle House parking lot next to a beat-up white van with a faded semper fi bumper sticker. I napped for a few minutes in the car until fragments of memory lured me to nightmare and I woke in a sweat.
Inside the restaurant, I huddled real small in the booth, shivering. I ordered an egg sandwich with hash browns regular and orange juice. Out the window, a rainstorm brewed. When the food came, I couldn’t stomach the grease or acid. Soon I was back behind the wheel in the steamy heat, hair and shirt clinging to my damp skin until the air conditioner kicked in.
As night fell and the highway stretched out a black ribbon of tar, a leaden heaviness wrapped itself around me. There was Daddy again, like in my nightmares. Alive, but not alive. Stiff, wooden in the mechanical dream coffin that opened and shut, tilting vertical on moving gears. Daddy stepping out of the box with a vacant gaze, orange extension cord taut round his neck. Leathery skin and a flat voice so unlike the gentle one he used in life.
Save me, sugar.
The median vanished, and I felt a familiar urge, to careen the car into the next oncoming eighteen-wheeler.
Save me, sugar.
Jesus, shut up already.
A light flashed to my left. Lightning, or maybe a police cruiser hiding in a thicket of pines. Then it happened again—flashing to my left, too close, jarring me from my self-sorry thoughts.
I swerved the car right and hit something hard with a metallic clunk. The car began to waver. A flat. As I slowed, a white van pulled alongside. Its cab light was on and the driver peered at me through his open window. He looked like a scruffy surfer, early twenties, wind fluttering the blond hair that fell over one eye. Nice looking, in a dirty sort of way. Could he see me? It seemed that he could. He wanted me to see him, that was for sure. Sure as the vine twines ’round the stump, as Mama would say.
When I glanced at him, he blew me a kiss.
“I love you,” he mouthed. He grinned, teeth gleaming.
A normal girl might have been disgusted, even scared. I fixed my gaze straight ahead at the yellow line, a spastic squiggle with each wobble of the car. I had to keep tugging the wheel to the left to avoid skidding off the road. I slowed to let him pass, but he slowed his van to match my speed. He edged closer. If I let go of the wheel, I could have reached out of my window and into his. He was going to push me off the highway and I would crash the car. I tapped on the brake to slow even more. A few minutes ago, I had wanted to die. Now, picturing a stranger’s hands squeezing my throat shut at the side of the road after a crash, I was wide awake.
I didn’t look again.
At last, he passed me, the semper fi bumper sticker caught for a moment in my headlights, and the van kept going until its rear lights vanished. Clunking along, now accompanied by a chorus of scraping metal, I willed the car to stay under my control. It was real dark now, dark all around. Faint thunder drummed in the distance.
Save me, Daddy whispered.
I gripped the wheel harder. Keep going, I told myself.
In the middle of nowhere—finally—came the smell of diesel and blinding fluorescent lights. A new gas station with twelve automated pumps and an open mini-mart.
I parked, then walked around my car to look at the tire. Not only was it flat and shredded, but the wheel had warped in on itself. I went inside to ask for help.
Two men leaned against the counter at the front of the store. They wore ski masks and one pointed a pistol at a gray-haired man beside the cash register. He too had a revolver, aimed squarely at the second robber, who didn’t appear to have a weapon. I’d walked into a standoff.
The gray-haired man said, “I ain’t handin’ out shit. You losers get out of my store afore we all die.”
Too many guns. And I was too close. The gunman grabbed me and jammed the black metal into the side of my neck. It felt like he would kill me by pressing so hard into that artery—what was it called? Cartoid? Carotid? I looked at the colorful row of cigarette packs displayed behind the owner. Camel was yellow. Kool was blue. Marlboro was red. Newport was green.
“Drop the gun or she dies.” He trembled as he shouted, the gun grinding into my neck.
Daddy, he’d kept his guns locked up.
The storeowner stared at me, eyes wide like Road Runner on the Looney Tunes reruns Daddy and I used to watch. Whenever Road Runner pulled a fast one on Wile E. Coyote, honking, “Beep, Beep,” Daddy would raise his beer can and say, “Semper fi, motherfuckers.” It was the only time I heard him swear.
The owner placed his gun on the countertop and stepped back, hands raised. The gunman shoved me aside and grabbed the owner’s weapon. “Give me all the money.”
When the owner didn’t move, the gunman fired, a deafening crack that slammed the owner back against the cigarette case, clutching his right side. The gunman leapt over the counter and kicked him to the floor, out of the way. He opened the cash register and shoveled money into a plastic garbage bag. I tried to slink away, but the barrel of the gun found me. “Do you want to die?”
I didn’t panic. I didn’t care if he killed me. I mean, I cared but it was like watching m
yself in a movie, more alive than life. After weeks of barely having energy to wash my hair or brush my teeth, my heart raced, my ears rang, and my neck throbbed where the steel had pressed it real hard.
“Dude, hurry up,” the second robber hissed, backing toward the exit.
The gunman dumped the last of the money into the plastic bag and waved the pistol at me. “You’re coming with us.”
I didn’t want to go with them. I had that much will left.
“Let me go. I haven’t seen your face,” I stammered. “I don’t know what you look like. I can’t identify you.” I scanned the store for an escape route.
That’s when the man in the white van showed up. He must have U-turned on the highway and stopped when he saw my car at the only gas station for miles. He wore ripped jeans, a t-shirt, flip-flops. He held a rifle. He strode in, aimed, and shot the two robbers point-blank, the gunman first then the poor kid diving for the door, like he’d done it a dozen times. His eyes shone. I’d seen that look before. He blew me a kiss.
“Remember me?” He slung the rifle over his shoulder, grinning that crazy grin, floppy blond hair falling over one eye. “I’m Chase.”
I had never been fond of violence. But there in the mini mart, when Chase shot those men, the crack inside me tore open.
On the floor behind the counter, the storeowner groaned. “I’m bleeding here.”
Chase threw me a cell phone. “Call 911,” he said. Moving quickly, he picked up the blood-spattered bag of money and collected the weapons while I reported hearing gunshots near a gas station. He grabbed food off the shelves and a twenty-four pack of water. The wounded storeowner cussed. Nearby the two robbers lay in pools of blood on the linoleum floor. I hung up without answering the dispatcher’s questions. When I gave Chase back the phone, he smashed it against the wall.
I could have walked right out the door. I didn’t think he would stop me. I had a flat tire, needed a new wheel, yes, but the police were on their way. They would have gotten me home safe. I could have gone to bed and dreamed of extension cords.
I didn’t leave. I watched him, this kiss-blowing vigilante with electric eyes, as he collected the money, weapons, food and drinks. I watched him like a child who stands in the middle of a field in a thunderstorm to watch the lightning strike. Finally, when he had loaded everything, he gripped my arm, dragged me through the rain to the white van and shoved me in the back as distant sirens pierced the night.
He drove for hours. It was hot in the back of the van and the thin carpeting on the floor itched me. I slept a dreamless sleep, lulled by the heat, rain on the roof, and the vibrating hum beneath me. As dawn broke, Chase parked and flung open the rear door and squinted at me pensively. The sun was out and the ground looked dry. Up close in the daylight, Chase’s tanned face, although youthful, was rough and battered. He gave me some water and a granola bar, let me out to pee.
He looked away while I squatted behind a tree to relieve myself. The air was thinner here. We were in the mountains, by a roadside patch of Queen Anne’s lace. He pulled a handful of flowers from the hard dirt, stems and all. He knelt down on the asphalt, removed my glasses and looked into my eyes. He was unshaven and smelled of alcohol and sweat and lonesomeness that matched my own, repelling me and making me long for him to touch me.
“I can take you to a bus station in the next town,” he said. “If I let you go, you’ll never see me again.” Gently, he touched my face. He swept my hair with the bouquet. “Or, come with me. We’ll be on the run and you’ll have to do everything I say. It’s no kind of life. You might get hurt.” His fingers grazed my lips so lightly, they almost didn’t touch. “Choose now.”
I slipped my hand into his. My smooth fingertips met his calloused skin. His palm pressed mine. He dropped the flowers.
“You know I love you, right?” he said softly.
I brushed a lock of golden hair away from those light eyes and saw tears. “You said that.”
“I’ll show you.”
I took his other hand and pulled him into the back of the van.
His fingers found my face, my skin. I closed my eyes. Hot tears wet my cheek and dampened my hair. His lips burned mine. He tasted of whisky.
The voices in my head, the visions that swirled around me and hovered like mist—they dissolved.
Finally. I could forget.
HAPPY PILLS, by Linda Johnson
Rose fluffed the silk flower in her hair, then rapped on the door. “Herbert? You in there?” No answer. Rapped again. Still no answer. Probably taking a nap with his hearing aid out, deaf to the world. She’d try again later. He was worth the wait.
She maneuvered her walker around the corner to Jack’s apartment. Azalea Abbey, an independent living facility (not to be confused with assisted living, thank you very much!) was laid out in a square: apartments on both sides, views of the center courtyard for the fortunate, views of the parking lots for the rest.
Rose was one of the fortunate ones—not that she cared about the flowers, gazebo or reflecting pool. Rose used her binoculars to spy on her fellow residents. Sometimes she’d get lucky and spot someone parading around naked: men with their bony arms and legs, sunken chests, and sexy little pot bellies. She tried to catch them first thing in the morning, their flags flying high—at least, the ones on Cialis. The droopy ones had not yet discovered the miracle of modern medicine.
She even watched the naked women—compared her body to theirs. Rose took great pride in maintaining her figure—even though it meant skipping the dessert tray. She’d been blessed with ample boobs, a small waist, and a round rump. Although the sands had shifted a bit, she still boasted an hourglass figure.
All she had to do was add a little sashay to her hips, and the geezers’ mouths dropped open. Sometimes the bolder ones grabbed her ass, then pretended they’d had a senior moment. Most of the time, she’d let them get away with it, unless one of the ladies was around, especially a wife. She didn’t want any trouble; married ladies ruled the roost.
Barely wheezing, Rose made it to Jack’s door and knocked.
“Who’s there?”
“Rose. You up for a visit?”
Jack opened the door. “All I need is my magic pill and twenty minutes, babycakes.” He held the door for her, patted her bottom as she walked by.
“Perfect. Give me a little time to freshen up.” She followed him to his bathroom, watched him take his Viagra, then shooed him out. When the door closed, she turned on the faucet full blast and checked out his meds. Score! He’d just gotten his oxy scrip filled. A hundred pills, he’d never notice the missing ones. She counted out ten and put them in her purse. She went through his other bottles—nothing worth taking other than Valium and he only had three left. Hopefully, she’d snag his next refill.
Now that the business end of things was taken care of, it was time for a little afternoon delight. She sat on the toilet and took off her tennis shoes and socks. Hard to look sexy in white orthopedic knee socks. Next she wiggled out of her pink polyester slacks—thank God for elastic waistbands. She left on her new panties, red silk with black lace. She liked to keep things spicy.
She kept on her top, a stretchy low-cut turquoise number that hugged her curves. Her bra matched her panties and Jack was pretty nimble with hooks. Some of the geezers with arthritis struggled forever.
She checked her face in the mirror. Time for the beauty parlor: her lavender rinse was fading and she needed her eyebrows waxed. She drew on a nice set each morning (a high arch to look wide-awake and youthful), but a few stray hairs ruined the effect. Her Elizabeth Taylor violet eyes were as bright as ever, her nose small and perky, no sign of a double chin. A little lip gloss and she was good to go.
She opened the bathroom door, ready to strut her stuff, but stopped when she heard the snores. Based on the tent pole under the bed sheet, the magic pill had worked. All she had to do was wake him up. “Hey, sailor. Ready to rumble?”
Jack’s eyes flew open. For a moment, he lo
oked dazed, then he let out a wolf whistle. “Holy moly, Rose. You could give a guy a heart attack.”
“That’s okay, honey. I know CPR.”
* * * *
When she finished up with Jack, she headed back to Herbert’s. More pills added to her stash, another romp in the sack.
Herbert’s hand stroked her thigh. “That was amazing, honey. Was it good for you?” His warm brown eyes held her gaze.
“Lovely,” Rose said. Such a charmer. No wonder single gals lined up with casseroles.
He put his arms around her, and she snuggled against him, enjoying the cuddle. The other geezers would turn over, fast asleep before she hopped out of bed.
She twirled his chest hair around her finger. She loved a nice carpet, didn’t get why the young guys waxed. She’d almost nodded off when he kissed her forehead.
“How about some tea and scones?” he asked. “I baked them this morning.”
“Why not? We worked off the calories.”
“Right. I’ll add whipped cream. Unless you have another idea for the whipped cream?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Maybe next time.” Rose laughed. Herbert always made her laugh.
While Herbert fixed their snack, Rose sat at the dining room table and surveyed his apartment. No Rooms to Go decor for him. He had a burgundy leather sofa that was as plush as a pillow, handsome wood furniture polished to a soft glow, and a collection of artwork he’d told her he acquired while traveling the world. Having tea and scones in his apartment was what she imagined high tea at the Ritz Carlton would be like.
As they ate, they chatted about current events, clashed over politics. He was a staunch Republican, she a die-hard Democrat, but they teased more than argued. Rose glanced at her watch, surprised. Almost four. The hours with Herbert rushed by. “It’s getting late. Better get home.”
He kissed her hand. “See you at dinner.”
She made it back to her apartment in time for a nap before dinner, exhausted. Two men a day was her limit.