by Joan Hess
Mrs. Jim Bob flipped to the next page. “At a quarter past twelve, two men arrived in an expensive foreign car. One was tall and muscular, the other short and scrawny. I wasn’t at all sure which was the patient, but within a minute, the little weasel came out to the car and drove away.”
“My goodness.” Brother Verber got back on the couch and took out his handkerchief to wipe his neck. “How many more of them came? Are we to be infested with lunatics and killers?”
“It’s hard to know for sure. I was climbing out of the tree ’long about one o’clock when a helicopter landed in the pasture out behind the building. I drove down the road a piece, but I still couldn’t see what was going on. I would have stayed, but I’d invited Lottie and Elsie for dessert and coffee, so I had to go home.”
“This is very disturbing,” said Brother Verber. “I’m sorry to have to say that my seminary did not provide any guidance in how to deal with a crisis like this. We can pray for the Good Lord’s protection, of course, but He may be occupied elsewhere.”
“You’ll have to warn folks tomorrow at church. Tell them to keep their doors and windows locked, report any strangers wandering around town, keep a loaded gun handy in case of intruders. This is not the time for a sermon about being a Good Samaritan, Brother Verber. If the law won’t protect us, then we’ll have to do it ourselves. I’m going to take it upon myself to organize a citizens’ committee so we can monitor what’s going on out there. I’m assuming that you in your role as spiritual leader will want to participate.”
“You mean sit in a tree with binoculars?” When she merely stared at him, he cleared his throat and added, “But it’s real important that I make myself available for lost souls in need of counseling and prayer. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve been called out in the darkest hours of night to rush to the side of a widow woman hovering on the brink of death. Why, only last week Maybelline Buchanon’s boy got snockered and threatened to kill hisself. I was there most of the night, telling him how he’d be facing eternal torment in the fiery furnace of damnation if he went through with it. Just as the sun came up, he relented and asked me to pray with him. Maybelline was so grateful that she fixed a mighty fine breakfast for me. I could tell you many such stories, but I can see you’re busy. Rushing to the aid of sinners—that’s my sacred mission, Sister Barbara, and I can’t shirk it.”
“Then I’ll put you down for the morning shift, say six to ten.” She scribbled a note, then put away her pad and stood up. “I’m glad you share my feelings about the importance of protecting ourselves.” She nodded gravely at him as she left.
He’d already poured himself a glass of sacramental wine before her car pulled back onto the road.
From the journal of Dawn Dartmouth:
dear diary…isn’t that cute? i haven’t kept one of these dumbshit things since i was eleven and i got tired of it in a week but dr zit says we like have to write in this every day as part of our therapy LOL!!! he swore we could keep it private but i know damn well he’ll read it while I’m off sweating and getting needles stuck in my ass
this is my first day of what’s going to be ninety days of hell the room’s not bad—better than a cell anyway i spent the night in county once waiting for mommy dearest to sign me out she said it was for my own good but i knew damn well she was too busy giving blow jobs to her current bimboy when i took some money out of his wallet i looked at his driver’s license he was nineteen—four years older than me he used to come to my bedroom when the bitch was passed out but i won’t get you all hot and bothered with the details
lunch today was a bowl of clear green soup guess what it tasted like? then, yum yum yum, a sliver of fish, a couple of baby carrots and a pile of alfalfa sprouts i guess you guys are saving a ton of money on food you couldn’t pay me to eat this crap at home i can stand to lose some pounds—but at this rate, it’s only gonna take a week it’s a good thing there’s this doctor here who can give me some boobs this time last time he had to do my nose and cheekbone maybe he should have sucked out my brains while he was doing it
From the journal of Toby Mann:
When I get out of this plaice, I’m going to track down my agent and ring his neck for dumping me off like this is nowhereville. It sure as hell ain’t margaritaville.
I was way bummed out yesterday when we got here. I mean, little Miss Molly looks like an angle, but along comes this way ugly woman built like a tackle and she asks me so many questions I wanted to slap the smirk off her face. How the hell would I know when my grandparents died? There like dead, so what does it matter? That was like the stupidest question I ever heard.
Then I get to meet the shrink, and he says I need anger management classes. Me, fer chrissake! You gotta get angry to win.
The food stinks. I need a lot to eat to keep my waite up. I can just imagine what coach’ll say if I show up carrying 140 pounds of flab. But that nazi said grass and berries and vitamins and pills to keep me mellow. Soon as I get out of this hell hole I’m going have a two pound steak, even if I have to kill the cow with my bare hands.
This morning at least I got to work out. Just because I have to sit out for ninty days doesn’t mean I’m gonna lose my edge. That’s why the reporters call me The Man. This one asshole sportswriter called me the Man-Child on account of me getting kicked out of a game. Funny thing—somebody torches his car the next week. We’re playing Green Bay when it happens, so I have like ten milion witnesses for an alibi. Son of a bitch complained to the leage officials, but of course they aren’t interested since they know damn well who the fans come to watch. Nobody’s gonna touch The Man!
From the journal of Alexandra Swayze:
Lloyd, if you ever read this, I want you to know that I hold you alone responsible for the degradation and humiliation I shall suffer in the next several months. Should I survive, I will have a new will drawn up that gives my entire estate to a pro-life organization. I hope you and Patricia will be satisfied with the painting your Aunt Bess did of the sunset over the Potomac. I believe it’s in the attic somewhere.
This has been the third day of my “voluntary” incarceration. Breakfast is brought to my suite each morning by what I presume is an illegal alien. I then go to a private session with Dr. Zumi, who is the son of immigrants from India. Frankly, these third world types should never have been admitted into the country. When the day comes that I am officially in the minority, I’ll move to a remote South Seas island. Dr. Zumi has thus far been very mild, merely encouraging me to talk. After that, I meet with the personal trainer, whom I can only describe as an aged hippie. I smelled marijuana smoke on his clothing, and this morning his eyes were oddly bright. Dr. Skiller has tried to convince me to try acupuncture, but the very idea of someone inserting needles in my body makes me queasy. I did agree to instruction in yoga, although I find the concept ludicrous. Why would I want to cross my legs and chant gibberish? A total waste of time, but then again, I don’t have much else to do.
Yesterday while I was having lunch in my suite, Dr. Stonebridge dropped by. He mentioned his long friendship with the Reagan family, so I was inclined to like him. After he left, I rested, then had a second exercise session and swam a few laps in the pool. Later, I shall have dinner here and read until I fall asleep.
I have not yet been introduced to my fellow inmates. The maids refer to them as Miss D, Mr. M, and Dr. D. I caught glimpses of the first two. Neither was familiar. I suppose they’re pop stars or TV actors. We are not, by the way, allowed to have newspapers or watch any of the cable news programs. Yesterday evening I declined to watch some frivolous movie in what is called the day room. I may well be able to recite the entirety of Henry James before I am released.
As for this ridiculous business of my addiction, I am now being obliged to swallow more pills than ever. I am somewhat shaky and nauseous as my intake of Percocet and Vicodin has already begun to be decreased, but Dr. Zumi has promised that the process will be very gradual and relatively pain-free. I can
sense that Dr. Skiller does not agree with his plan; she positively glowers at him at times. Then again, she glowers at me all the time, and has made it clear that she objects to my philosophical positions on social programs. These bleeding heart liberals are incapable of rational intercourse, and would much rather sniffle about the plight of the downtrodden and spend tax dollars to make amends, as if the rest of us should accept responsibility for these people’s laziness. Some of America’s greatest leaders came from humble backgrounds yet made something of themselves by hard work, sacrifice, and dedication.
Late last night I felt the need for fresh air, so I slipped out of my room and started in the direction of the door to the pool and garden area. I was surprised to see a light on in the office in the reception area, and I heard voices. I hesitated, but before I could decide how to proceed an orderly swept down on me and escorted me back to my suite. I must mention it to Dr. Stonebridge when next I see him. If one of these illegal aliens has been bribed to allow a member of the media access to the private files, I shall leave immediately.
From the journal of Dr. Shelby Dibbins:
Allow me to point out once again that I am paid in gold ducats to write my books. Why in hell’s name should I waste my time writing in this cheap little notebook as if I were a school child?
Although presumably this is confidential, I have no doubt that one of those subservient spies will be sent to fetch this should I ever leave the room. Which I will not do for the next eighty-odd days. I have made it perfectly clear that I am at this despicable gulag under protest, and cannot be held should I decide to leave. That would be my agent’s worst nightmare. I do hope that she is so fearful of losing her commission that she cannot sleep. Perhaps she’ll develop ulcers and migraines, along with anxiety attacks in the middle of a meeting. Warts and pimples. An uncontrollable compulsion to burst into tears while negotiating contracts. Revenge by any other name would smell as rancid.
Gulag Maggody. After all, there is a chainlink fence topped with barbed wire, and a guard with a dog who prowls the perimeter after dark. Padded footsteps in the hall at night, and on two occasions, hushed arguments and muted sobbing. Perhaps the other inmates are plotting to escape.
Dr. Gandhi was not pleased when I made it clear that I refuse to go to his office for daily head-shrinking. Let the mountain come to Mohammed. Walter, the physical trainer, was less than pleased, but does he really think I’d put on shorts and a tank top in order to sweat? He comes here each morning and afternoon with his barbells and other peculiar devices, and pleads with me. I stare at him until he slinks away like a mangy cur.
Dr. Stonebridge is another matter. He is suave, almost obsequious, but with the intensity of a megalomaniac. He described various medical procedures to assist in my weight loss. I objected, having always had an aversion to scalpels and needles, but he merely nodded thoughtfully. It will make for an entertaining battle.
The food merits nothing more than contempt. I expend more calories swallowing various pills and tablets than I consume from the twigs and leaves that comprise my meals.
So I am doomed to stay in this suite for three months. A far cry from my home, with its lush gardens and views of the ocean from all the rooms. My golf cart to putter around the grounds. My king-size bed with black satin sheets. My kitchen, where Pietro strives to add the perfect pinches of herbs to enliven leg of lamb, veal scallopini, osso buco, fettuccine with alfredo sauce and a medley of freshly picked vegetables, the rum torte, the silky chocolate mousse, the tangy lemon sorbets and—
I am torturing myself. I will acknowledge that my weight has gotten a bit out of hand, although I am still more than capable of promoting the new book. I am, after all, a professional. What’s more, should the bastards in New York renege on the contract, I shall sue their Yankee asses until they’re reduced to bloodied piles of diarrhea.
Ruby Bee replaced the receiver and tried to think what to do. It might have helped to talk it over with Estelle, but she hadn’t shown her face for five days. She wasn’t dead or anything like that; Roy Stiver had mentioned only yesterday that she’d stopped by to browse. Ruby Bee knew darn well that the only reason Estelle would do such a thing was to spy on the bar & grill. And the day before that, Eula and Lottie had come by for lunch and mentioned seeing her at a flea market in Hasty that very morning. They’d sort of raised their eyebrows and waited for Ruby Bee to say something, but she hadn’t obliged them with anything more than a grunt.
And Arly wasn’t exactly dropping by to chat these days. She’d come in to eat every now and then, but always when it was crowded and it was all Ruby Bee could do to keep dishing up blue plate specials and filling pitchers of beer. Probably on purpose, she thought with a sniff.
That meant she was going to have to decide for herself. She’d been uneasy about what might be going on at the Stonebridge Foundation, but after listening to Mrs. Jim Bob, she was downright worried that something truly wicked was going on out there. According to Mrs. Jim Bob, everybody in town had a gun handy in case some crazy man came crashing into their home. Children weren’t being allowed to walk to school alone or ride their bicycles. Women were making their husbands put extra locks on their doors and windows, and stay home at night.
Ruby Bee had never owned a gun, and she disremembered the last time she’d fired one. She had a baseball bat behind the bar, and another one under her bed out back. As for locks, well, folks didn’t break into houses in Maggody. They didn’t have to, since most everybody kept a spare key under a flowerpot or on the sill above the door.
It was a darn shame the New Age hardware store had gone out of business, she thought. She could have at least bought a couple of sliding bolts or a chain. And where in tarnation was she supposed to buy a gun, especially since she didn’t know one blasted thing about them? She sure couldn’t go asking Arly.
The rest of what Mrs. Jim Bob had said was equally troubling. She’d gotten it into her head that the Mexicans living in the Flamingo Motel knew what was going on at the foundation—and were even participants in satanic rituals, she’d whispered darkly. The reason they were there was to spy on the community, to see who might be easy to drug and carry off to be mutilated and eventually sacrificed on an altar.
Ruby Bee hadn’t seen any suspicious behavior since the staff from the foundation moved in. They kept to themselves, never venturing into the bar for a beer or something to eat. They had a grill at the end of one of the buildings, and sometimes she’d see a few of them cooking on it and gabbing at each other. Part of the deal was that Ruby Bee didn’t have to clean their rooms. She’d shown one of them, a stout woman with a grim face, how to use the washer and dryer in the back room. Every day one of them would run a load of sheets and towels, or skirts and trousers, then hang them on a makeshift clothesline by their little grill. None of them ever smiled or spoke, and Ruby Bee’d given up on trying to be friendly.
But the idea of sneaking into their rooms when they were gone didn’t seem neighborly, and there was no telling when the van might show up. There were always two or three of them hanging around outside or in their rooms with the curtains drawn.
She could make an effort to try to talk to them, she supposed. Take them a pie or a plate of cookies, and see what they said. The lady doctor had said none of them spoke English, but Ruby Bee found that hard to swallow. Everybody could speak English, even the Buchanons that lived out in the booger woods. It might not be educated English, but Ruby Bee had learned over the years how to communicate with truck drivers so drunk their tongues hung down to their knees. And that Mexican who owned the Dairee Dee-Lishus had an accent, but she could understand him just fine.
It was too bad she’d have to do it by herself, but she couldn’t hardly ask Estelle, who’d proved herself to be a mean-spirited, narrow-minded bigot. Why, if they gave out ribbons at the county fair for such things, Estelle would come strutting away with the blue. Until she came to her senses, she could just skulk around town and go off to flea markets by her lones
ome. Ruby Bee knew for a fact it wasn’t much fun without someone along to discuss the value of a chipped vase or a stained teacup. Estelle could stew in her own juices, for all Ruby Bee cared.
In the meantime, though, she figured she might ought to look into buying a gun. Roy was sitting out front of his shop, waiting for a tourist with more money than sense. She decided to take him a piece of chocolate cake and find out what all he knew about guns and how to go about buying one.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Jim Bob as he came in through the back door.
Mrs. Jim Bob was seated at the table in the sunroom. “I do not care for foul language in my own home. That sort of crudeness is best left at the trailer park or the pool hall.”
He took a deep breath. “Why do you have that gun on the table?”
“I’m cleaning it,” she said. “I found it in the garage, and it was covered with dust and oily grime.”
“So you’re cleaning it with Windex?”
She began to buff it with a rag. “I’m certainly not going to have it inside in this filthy condition. It’s looking quite shiny now, don’t you think?”
Jim Bob nearly tripped in his haste to duck behind a chair. “Don’t point that thing. It could be loaded.”