by Sharon Sala
Oklahoma State Penitentiary, McAlester, Oklahoma
The scent of industrial strength soap, as well as the constant smell of hot steam and wet cotton, filled the laundry room in which a number of inmates were working. Some of them were old hands at the job, some of them just learning the ropes. And although they were trusted to some degree with the duties they’d been given, the ominous presence of armed guards was a constant reminder of their present position in life. The work was hard, the working conditions less than pleasant. Until they became acclimated to the steam and heat, it wasn’t uncommon for an inmate to succumb to the atmosphere and faint. So when the old man at the dryers suddenly crumpled to the floor and was carried into a hallway beyond, where the air was less dense, they weren’t expecting anything serious.
They laid him down, then rolled him onto his back while the guard was on his two-way, calling for help. The man’s face was bloodless, giving the black scorpion tattoo on his cheek an eerie added dimension. His mouth was agape, and his eyes had rolled back in his head. A thin trickle of spittle ran out from the corner of his mouth, and there was a slight jerk and twitch to the muscles in his legs. The guard took one look at the old man and added an urgency to the message he’d already sent.
Within minutes they’d carried him away and someone else had been put in his place. The steam still boiled, and the scent of wet clothes and strong soap continued to drift throughout the area. In the grand scheme of things, one old man’s presence in the laundry room of the state penitentiary was never going to be missed.
Meanwhile, his arrival at the health-care unit was causing a slight shift in their daily routine. He was transferred from a stretcher to a bed without his knowledge, and was stuck, poked and prodded before he ever came to. When Oliver Hale finally opened his eyes, the indignities of contemporary health care became secondary to why he was there. He didn’t remember anything past the nausea he’d been fighting for weeks and a lassitude he’d been unable to shake.
“Mr. Hale, can you hear me?”
He stared up at the doctor leaning over him.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Cal Levisay asked.
A surge of nausea bubbled at the back of Oliver’s throat. He could see the doctor’s hand just fine, as well as the fact that he was holding up three of his five fingers. But opening his mouth to talk right now could be risky.
“Sick,” he muttered.
“Yes, Mr. Hale, you got sick. They brought you to the hospital from the laundry room. Do you remember?”
Hell yes, I remember, but can’t you hear? I told you I was going to be sick.
Levisay frowned. The patient’s behavior was suspicious, more in keeping with dementia after suffering a stroke. He leaned closer.
“Do you know what day this is?” he asked.
Oliver groaned. The day you get to buy a new tie. And answered the question by spewing everything in his stomach onto the front of the man’s clothes.
“Damn!” Levisay cried and took several steps back. But it was too late to stop the damage from being done. “Run a complete blood workup on him,” he ordered, and began stripping off his lab coat as he headed for the door. “Call me when the results are in.”
***
“Can’t believe he’s so tough.”
“Get me a new needle.”
“He’s badly dehydrated.”
“We need to get a drip going now.”
“Don’t see how anyone in this kind of shape is still walking.”
“He can’t last. The tests are conclusive. He’s dying.”
The voices drifted in and out of Oliver’s drug-laden mind, frightening him with their urgency, taunting him with their warnings. He struggled to come out of the shadows and tell the whole lot of them off. They hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know.
Hell yes, he was dying. He’d been pissing blood for a month. After that, what else was left? And yet, he was a bit surprised with himself. He hadn’t considered himself a man with constitutional fortitude, but it would seem that he had it after all.
Tough. They’d said he was tough. He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t get past the thought. He’d had to be tough to survive the life he’d lived.
Damn! Felt like they were sticking him full of holes. If he could just get his wits about him enough to wake up, he would give them all a cussing they would never forget. Needles, needles, needles. In his arms, in his hands, in his butt. Didn’t doctors know how to do anything besides cut and poke?
“Mr. Hale, we’re going to make you more comfortable now.”
Like hell. You can’t make wore out comfortable, and I’m plumb wore out. From the inside out. My innards are gone. My joints are wore. My body’s quitting on me. Why the hell won’t you just let me die? I’m not afraid to die.
“Maybe you better notify his next of kin.”
There is no next of kin. No wife. No kids. No nothing. He wished he could laugh. Lord, but he would love to have himself a good belly laugh right now. They’re wasting their time looking for someone who could give a shit. But who cares? Let ’em look. It’ll give ’em something to do.
“Somebody called wanting to visit old man Hale. If they want to talk to him, they’d better hurry. He doesn’t have many talking days left.”
Oliver’s finger twitched. It was the best he could do with what he had to work with. Yeah, and the same to you, babe. There’s no one on the face of this earth who’d want to be visiting me.
And then he thought of LeeNona Beverly. The damned old bitch. He refused to wallow in regret. He’d made his choices and lived with them. And then a spurt of sadness hit him. Now he was going to die with them. He thought back to the early years. To the times when he’d planned to live forever.
Boy, wasn’t life a pisser? Why hadn’t someone told him he would get old and sick? If he’d known this was coming, he could have chosen a better way out. Now, here he was, tied to the damned bed, with buttermilk for brains.
“It’s time for your bath, Mr. Hale. You’re going to feel so much better after you’re clean.”
I’d feel so much better if I could stuff that washcloth up your ass. Dammit, woman, didn’t anybody ever tell you a man’s balls are tender? Oh damn. Oh hell. Don’t tickle my feet. I’m ticklish you mule-faced son of a bitch. Oh. Oh. Oh. Well, you went and did it now. It’s not my fault my bowels don’t hold. You knew my bladder’s gone. You should have figured this one out for yourselves.
Indignity after indignity pushed Oliver closer and closer to breaking. Just as soon as he could remember the way to wake up, he was going to give them all a good piece of his mind.
Eleven
Brett’s new house had become a source of unending pleasure for Tory. There were nooks and crannies to explore that the apartment had not had, and the fenced-in backyard that went with it was the best bonus of all.
A rose of Sharon hedge bordered all three sides of the fence, enclosing the yard with the faint but sweet odor spilling from the lavender and pink blossoms. Dozens of bees fought with the occasional hummingbird for territorial feeding rights, while a family of robins nesting in the old shady oak in the middle of the yard had an ongoing quarrel with a mockingbird who also called the tree home.
Tory was drawn to the daily drama going on beneath her nose and had taken to spending the day in the yard with a camera around her neck. Using her favorite telephoto lens and high-speed color film, she had captured the details of life that most people miss. She didn’t yet know what she was going to do with the shots, but many were too priceless to ignore.
A cat doing a nosedive into the hedge after missing his chance at the mockingbird, who’d just taken flight. A bee and a hummingbird going nose to nose for the same blossom. A fat-bellied robin caught stealing a grape from the bowl of fruit she’d been eating. A squirrel doing a tightrope act on a limb too frail for its weight.
Two days ago Brett had come home with a surprise and hadn’t let her look until he had it fully assembled. He’d
bought her a free-standing hammock and set it up in the shade of the big oak. Now it was her favorite place to be. Lying on her back and looking up to the patchwork of blue sky showing between the branches and leaves was good medicine for a frail spirit. It made her thankful for what she did have, rather than sorry for what she’d lost.
It had become her practice to take the rag doll with her whenever she went into the backyard, and she wondered if she was repeating a habit she’d had as a child. As she would busy herself with the camera, the doll would be set aside. Then, when she would miss it and turn to see where she’d left it, she would be hit with a strong sensation of déjà vu. It didn’t matter whether she found it lying in the flowers or propped up in the hammock with bits of sunshine dappling its face. Each time she bent to pick it up, a whisper of something long forgotten would hit her. It wasn’t as strong as a memory, but it was more than a longing, and she knew that with each passing day, her mind was turning loose of the wall behind which it had been hiding. And she drew strength from each passing day, knowing that with Brett at her side, she could face anything.
***
It was midafternoon, the laziest part of a late September day, when Tory heard the familiar sound of Brett’s car turning into the driveway. Surprised that he was home, she glanced at her watch. It was barely three o’clock. Before she could gather up her things to go meet him, he pushed aside the sliding glass doors and came out onto the patio. Only after he saw her did the tension in his face ease away, and it shamed her that she’d given him cause for so much pain.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Brett called, and started toward her.
Tory smiled and waved, then bent to pick up her doll. When she straightened, she saw that Brett had stopped and was standing and staring at her. She had no idea that the halo of sunlight and flowers in which she’d been framed had taken away all his breath, or that he was fighting back a sudden burst of tears. All she saw was the love on his face, and she knew it was for her.
“What brings you home this time of day?”
You. Always you. Brett took a deep breath, stunned by the beauty of the woman before him. Her hair was flyaway clean and pulled away from her face, and the dress she was wearing hung loose upon her, sheer pink-and-white gauze that teased the viewer with vague shapes and suggestions of the body beneath. She stood barefaced and guileless beneath the heat of the sun, holding her camera in one hand and that doll in the other. He was struck by an urgency to capture the moment.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, and took the camera from her before stepping back several paces.
“You’ll need to reset the—”
“Just be still, Victoria. The rest will take care of itself.”
She laughed, and that was how he caught her, with her head thrown back to the world, laughter spilling out of her mouth, and a ragamuffin baby doll clutched to her breast. Even after the shutter had clicked, he kept staring at the image before him, knowing that for the rest of his life, he would remember her this way, full of life and just happy to be here.
“Here, let me,” she said, and forwarded the film, readying it for the next shot.
Brett’s heart was still in his mouth when he swung her off her feet and into his arms.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she cried, reaching for the place he’d been shot.
“Victoria, do shut up,” he muttered, and swooped for a kiss.
He started for the house.
“Don’t drop me!”
“Only onto the bed.” He grinned when she blushed.
It was an hour and a half later before they came up for air, and only then did Tory realize he still hadn’t told her why he’d come home. She rose up on one elbow and ran her finger down the length of his arm, testing the tensile strength of muscles cording beneath her touch.
“Careful,” he warned her, and then pounced, rolling her onto her back and pinning her to the bed with both hands. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to let sleeping dogs lie?”
She laughed. “Yes, but my mistake was in not recognizing that you fit into the canine category. Brett, darling, are you really a dog?”
He grinned. “Baby, there isn’t a man walking who doesn’t have a tiny bit of the dog in him. Why else would we screw up on a regular basis and never even know we’re wrong?”
She laughed again, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him down until he was stretched out on top of her, chin to chin, toe to toe. She sighed, relishing the feel of him against her skin.
“You know what I love more than anything else in this world?” she said softly.
“What, honey?” he asked, then started to move, afraid he would crush her with his weight.
“No, don’t,” Tory begged, holding him in place on top of her.
“But I’m too heavy,” he protested.
“No, I like it,” she said, and then hushed when she realized that to say more would be giving herself away.
Brett rose up to gaze down at her face. He cupped her cheek, feathering tiny little kisses across her mouth until she was gasping for breath and yearning for more.
“Tell me why?”
Lost in what he was doing to her pulse rate, she’d almost forgotten what they’d been discussing.
“Why what?” she murmured.
“Why you like me to lie on top of you like this.”
What she was about to tell him would be very revealing. But it was time she was honest with herself, as well as with him.
“Well, first because it’s you, and because I love you,” she said.
“And…?”
She fought an urge to look away as she met his gaze. “Because it makes me feel safe.”
His shook his head, almost laughing at her answer. “Safe? How can me squashing you halfway into the mattress make you feel safe?”
Her chin quivered. “Because when I’m holding you like this, I don’t feel vulnerable. You lie between me and the world.”
Oh, Tory. He was too full of emotion to speak. Instead, he lowered himself back down on the bed, feeling the imprint of her body against him and letting himself be where she needed him to be.
“Always,” he whispered, and held her close.
Tory closed her eyes and gave herself up to the man who was her life. It was only later, when Brett had gotten up to answer the phone, that she realized she still didn’t know why he’d come home. When he disconnected, she poked at his bare backside with her toe to get his attention.
“Hey, you.”
He looked over his shoulder and grinned.
“You’re awfully feisty for someone who just flew over the rainbow.”
Her mouth dropped. “Why, Brett, that’s a beautiful analogy for making love.”
He grinned. “Yeah. This old hippie I know says it all the time.”
She threw a pillow at him and then laughed. “You’re such a mess,” she muttered, then reached for her clothes. “And hey, by the way, you never did tell me why you’re home in the middle of the day.”
Because she was pulling her dress over her head, she didn’t see him tense, and by the time it had fallen into place, he was grinning again.
“That’s right, I didn’t. Meet you in the hammock in two minutes, okay?”
Her eyes lit with delight. A surprise? She loved surprises. Without waiting for him to continue, she raced toward the door.
“You forgot your shoes,” he yelled, but she was already gone.
He shrugged and headed for the kitchen. If Tory wanted to go barefoot, then barefoot she could be. The way he figured it, she hadn’t done nearly enough things in her life just for fun.
Just before he started out the door, he yelled, “Close your eyes.” Then he hurried across the yard, juggling a carton and two spoons. When he got to the hammock, he stuck one of the spoons in the carton and dug deep.
“Okay,” he said. “Now open your mouth.”
Tory groaned. “Oh, Brett, you know how I hate to be tricked. Please let me look. I can’t open my mout
h unless I know what you’re going to put in it.”
“Trust me, baby. You’re going to love it.”
She shuddered but did as he asked; then, when she felt the cold sweet taste of strawberry ice cream melting on her tongue, her eyes flew open in delight.
“Ice cream! And it’s strawberry—my absolute favorite.”
“Hold this,” he ordered, handing her the carton and both spoons while he slung one long leg over the hammock and then settled himself into place facing her, with the carton of ice cream between them.
She handed him a spoon, then helped herself to another bite.
“It’s going to melt,” she said, giggling between bites as a thick film of condensation began to form on the outside of the carton.
“Then eat fast.”
She grinned and did as he suggested.
They were down to the bottom of the carton when Tory threw up her hands in defeat.
“I can’t eat another bite,” she said, and leaned back in the hammock with a groan, rubbing her tummy and thankful that her dress was loose at the waist. “But it was wonderful. Thank you so much for my surprise.”
“You’re welcome,” Brett said, licking his spoon. Then he set the carton onto the grass beneath the hammock.
His conscience was bothering him. She looked so content, and he was about to ruin what was left of her day.
“Tory.”
Replete from her feast, she lay motionless, her eyes half-closed from the glare of the sun lowering toward the western horizon.
“Hmm?”
“You know when you went to Iowa?”
“Umm-hmm?”
“If you’d found Oliver Hale, what were you going to ask him?”
For a long moment she thought back, trying to remember what she’d been thinking. But so much had happened since then that she drew a blank.
“You know what? I’m not really sure. I think I was just planning to play it by ear.”
“What if he hadn’t recognized you? What if you’d gone all that way for nothing?”
She met Brett’s gaze. “I was going to come back and make an appointment with the first psychiatrist I could find.”