Uncle Brucker the Rat Killer

by Leslie Peter Wulff

  By the time we pulled into the parking lot next to the hospital in downtown Dexter, we had agreed on a plan.

  “If that ain’t fair it’s close to it,” he said. “Where can I get me one of them Government hats?”

  118

  “Oh, it’s the White Palace for sure. . . .”

  Mercy Hospital, Intensive Care, room A-27.

  We stood outside in the hall and listened to my Uncle moan.

  Except it wasn’t really a moan because it didn’t come from his throat. It came from someplace deep down and took a long time to get out, which made it worse and scary when it spread out into the hall. Moan is the best I can come up with.

  It took a while to get up the nerve, then I went in to see my Uncle.

  “Oh, there’s no mistakin’ it. The front door is wide open and the Palace lights are on. . . .”

  I spread open the curtain and there he was, eyes shut tight, covers up to his chin. He looked bad, real bad. Hanging upside down all night made his face go all crooked and blotchy. One eyebrow went up, the other went down, and they didn’t meet up in the center. He looked like he belonged in a late night spook show.

  He opened one eye, saw me standing beside the bed and smiled a sneaky smile.

  “Shut the door will ya, Walt? I don’t really see no White Palace, and that ain’t real genuine moanin’. It’s a technique I’m perfectin’ for scarin’ doctors away.”

  His swollen tongue got in the way and he had trouble speaking, but I understood what he said.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and told him what Keith told me.

  The Ram. The accident. The stroke.

  “It’s that rat actin’ up is what it is,” he said. “No matter what I do, he’s got another way a doin’ it, and that includes drivin’. No wonder I ended up in a ditch! I’ll tell you somethin’, Walt. It wasn’t a stroke caused the accident. It was bringin’ me to the hospital give me the stroke! My heart knew it was headin’ back here and couldn’t take the bad news. It ain’t fair, Walt, creepin’ up inside me, snipin’ at my soul. Infiltratin’! Takin’ over! I wish I never killed a rat, if that’s what brung this upon me. And now I’m back in the hospital, trapped inside and out. I’m totaled, Walt. Like you said, I’m totaled.”

  “Not you. The Ram.”

  “Say again?”

  “I said the Ram got totaled, not you. Only the Ram.”

  “I ain’t totaled?”

  “Not nearly. Matter of fact, you’re lookin pretty good . . .”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “I got a hunch about somethin’,” I said. I took the clipboard from the side of the bed and looked it over. “A-ha! I was right. Look, Unc!” I held up the chart and there it was, RS in big red letters across the top. “You know what RS means, Unc? It’s doctor’s code for Revitalizin’ Stroke!”

  He pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted the chart into focus.

  “Well I’ll be damned. That ain’t so bad, is it? In fact it’s pretty good. Unplug me, Walt.”

  He peeled off a wire taped to his chest and he threw it to the floor. I peeled off a tube taped to his left arm. More tubes and more wires, thrown to the floor, I kicked them all under the bed where the doctors can’t see it.

  “Here, drink up. It’ll do ya a world a good.” I passed him a glass of water from the table. “Slow, Unc, drink it slow. Now sip from the other side. You gotta sip all around to get the full potential.”

  “You’re right, Walt, I need all the potential.”

  He sipped and turned the glass, and his tongue loosened up. His eyebrows pulled together in a tight line of important thoughts, and his eyes cleared up and found something to look at.

  “Gimme more,” he said.

  I held the glass and he drank. Half a glass later he was sitting up straight. I helped him get up from the bed. He was a little shaky at first, steadier as he stepped forward.

  By the time he got to the closet he was on his own.

  119

  “OK, Unc, switch clothes!”

  I opened up my bag and took out Uncle Brucker’s blue suit and name tag. He took off his robe and put on the pants. I had no time to take the wrinkled suit to the cleaners. In the mirror he straightened the collar of his blue tour-guide suit.

  I pinned on his name tag. Thompson, Brucker.

  “Better get goin’. There’s doctors comin’,” I said, and I quickly got into the bed and he opened the door and walked out.

  Face to face with the Inspector.

  At this point the Inspector was supposed to say, “Is this the official tour?” And then he would join the tour and follow along behind Uncle Brucker. We went over it in the car.

  But he just stood there looking scared and confused and hopeless. Uncle Brucker knew how the Inspector felt. He knew it because he lived it. It’s tough being stuck in another dimension where everything’s different and you have no home base.

  “Yes, this is the official tour,” Uncle Brucker said, and he started off down the hall, hoping the Inspector will take the hint and follow. An elderly couple got on line and followed, but the Inspector stayed behind motionless. “Follow me, please. This tour goes in one direction only.”

  The next time he looked back, the Inspector had caught up and joined the tour.

  “There’s operatin’ rooms on the left. That’s where they do the fixin’,” said Uncle Brucker. “Intensive Care is on the right, and that’s where they do the curin’. Someday they’ll combine the two and speed up the process. That’s the front desk up ahead. Call it main desk or front desk, they’ll know what you mean. The tour starts and ends right here. Thank you and stay well.”

  By the time they reached the front desk, the group had grown to eight people.

  The door opened and two doctors came into my room. Their name tags said Dr. Yula Von Delpa and Dr. Gail Gustarino. They had pens in their pockets and they carried tablets with lots of information. Dr. Von Delpa wore a tiny ice cream cone earring on her left ear. Her right ear had a stick pop. Dr. Gustarino wore no earrings at all. They took my pulse and checked the monitors and the chart.

  Then left their pens in their pockets and they tapped on their computer tablets and consulted each other.

  “Not my choice for the picture of health gallery,” said Dr. Von Delpa with the earrings.

  “And he’s been talkin’ about the White Palace,” said Dr. Gustarino who was earring free.

  “Lights on, doors open?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “There’s not much we can do when the lights are on and all the doors to the Palace are open.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Coffee?”

  “I concur.”

  The doctors put their tablets in their pockets and hung the clipboard on the bed, and they didn’t use their pens at all.

  After they left I counted to one hundred, got out of bed and went into the hall. The two doctors were all the way down by the cafeteria. At the front desk people inquired about the twelve o’clock tour.

  I took the stairs down to the parking lot. There was a window on every floor. Through the third floor window I saw my Uncle and the Inspector walking slowly across the tree lawn. Second floor, they headed toward the road. Next floor down I couldn’t see them through the bushes. Down the hall and out to the parking lot. I got in the Camaro, tied my seatbelt in a knot, and took off.

  120

  Uncle Brucker and the Inspector walked across the tree lawn in the cool shade of the maples and birch. Out in the sun they followed the sidewalk downtown. The Inspector knew exactly where he had to go. He wasn’t sure how to get there, but he had a good sense of direction and he had no trouble finding his way around.

  By the time they got to Main Street, Uncle Brucker had worn himself out. His leg muscles ached and his heart beat like a sump pump, and he needed to catch his breath.

  They came to a yellow bench at the corner bus stop. An elderly lady moved over and they sat next to her. They talked ab
out the weather. Everyone agreed it’s a most beautiful day, and that’s as far as the conversation went. The sparrows spread out on the telephone wires, all pointed in the same direction. A mother pushed her twin daughters in a sidewalk double stroller. The siren went off at noon.

  On their feet again, the Inspector and Uncle Brucker talked about the difference between dimensions and what makes a good stew.

  “It’s in the stirrin’,” said the Inspector. “Cook it even all around.”

  “Ingredients,” said Uncle Brucker. “Or it don’t matter that you’re stirrin’.”

  The Inspector complemented Uncle Brucker on his Rat Talk. “Close my eyes, I’d swear I’m talkin’ to a rat.”

  Uncle Brucker thought the Inspector had a real good sense of direction. Outstanding, considering he was from a different dimension. The Inspector got around better than a lot of people from this dimension that my Uncle could mention.

  “But to be honest, Inspector, as an impostor you won’t make my ten best list.”

  “Have you seen my card?” The Inspector smiled like a bandit and took his US Gov’t Proposal Division card from his pocket and passed it to my Uncle. “What do you think of that?”

  They laughed at the smudged-up nosewriting. Fake!

  “But that don’t mean nuthin’ against my proposal.”

  “They could be workin’ on it right now.”

  “It’s about time,” Uncle Brucker said, and he bent over in pain.

  “Oh, no, he’s actin’ up again!” He stumbled, but the Inspector didn’t let him fall. “G-G-Goddamit, Inspector. I thought you was findin’ us a Portal!”

  Years ago there used to be a fish mart on the corner of Main and Third, but the store burned down and the owners never rebuilt. Uncle Brucker and the Inspector walked cross the old parking lot where the weeds grew high through the crumpled cement. The Inspector stopped and listened. A few steps further, one more, a little to the right. He stopped again.

  “Hear anythin’?” asked the Inspector.

  “Just you whistlin’.”

  “It ain’t me whistlin’. It ain’t nobody at all.”

  In the tall weeds of the grown-over parking lot behind the old Main Street Fish Mart not far from Mercy hospital in downtown Dexter, there has always been a Portal to the next dimension. Look for it if you want, but you’ll never find it unless you have the Inspector to help you out.

  “You sure know your way around,” said Uncle Brucker.

  “After you,” the Inspector said.

  121

  On 94, past Conklin, I slipped the Camaro into fourth and got into the left lane. Farther down on 94 I went 70mph in a 55 zone. A cop car pulled up behind me and I slowed down. He followed me for a mile, then he put his directional on. He got off at the exit and I stepped on the gas. At 70mph my thoughts turned to Renata.

  At the edge of town I stopped at the Shell station. I went into the shop, couldn’t find anything I wanted to eat, bought a Coke and walked out. Then I headed through town to Tuskies.

  It was a busy afternoon. For every guy that hung out, three girls walked the street. A cherry red Impala cruised down Center and turned right at South Main, and a red T-bird made a lonely picture with its hood open in front of Half Price Stores. The Impala is a cool car, but not as cool as the Camaro.

  An accident tied up the entrance to the strip mall. The cops blocked the road and they set up detour signs. I made a right and followed the signs back to Center.

  I don’t know how Dwight got in the back seat, but I wasn’t surprised when I saw his face in the rearview mirror.

  “Hidin’ out, Dwight?”

  “I wouldn’t call it hidin’,” he said.

  “It’s my car, I do the callin’.”

  “I suppose you’re lookin’ for my sister.”

  “Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t. Your sister got anythin’ to say to me?”

  “I don’t know what goes on in her mind, but I know she’s sorry. She’s sorry she took your Uncle’s War Medal. She’s sorry about lyin’. She took it for our father cause he never got nuthin’ ‘cept a bad leg. And I’m tellin’ you she split up with Kip and I don’t know how long before she’s back with him. You ain’t been callin’ or cummin’ around.”

  “I got reasons.”

  “She gave back the Medal. It ain’t stealin’ when you give it back.”

  “It’s stealin’ until you give it back. And what do you mean, she? You brought it back for her, probably took it for her too. I saw you or your twin brother runnin’ from the house that mornin’.”

  That stumped him but only for a second.

  “She’s my sister and I’ll do anythin’ for her,” he said. “She wants you to come down to Tuskies. She’s been down there every day, waitin’ and you ain’t showed up. She ain’t gonna wait forever and she ain’t the type to go lookin’ for company.”

  I parked across from Mid-City Lanes, turned the engine off and there we sat with the radio off. We sat for so long I grew about an inch and a half. Dwight said nothing to me, and I didn’t speak to Dwight because I get quiet when my mind is busy.

  A real cool black Charger with a white racing stripe and a hood scoop went by. A not-so-cool red El Camino played a doo-wop tune at the stop light. I hate that doo-wop crap when they don’t know what to sing.

  They can’t figure out the words so they doo-wop it up.

  Dwight got out the passenger side and I almost got out with him. I had my seatbelt tied but that’s not what held me back.

  “She’s waitin’,” Dwight said. His black eye had cleared up a little, not much. A shiner like that takes time to clear up. “You cummin’?” he asked.

  My fingers played with the ignition key.

  “She’s waitin’,” he said.

  “I heard you.”

  “This car ain’t no Mustang.”

  “It’s a Camaro.”

  “Mustang’s faster.”

  “Not without a turbo and a filter-charger it ain’t.”

  “I’d rather have a Mustang.”

  “So write it on your forehead and shut up about it.”

  Dwight took his cap off and adjusted it and put it back on his head.

  “It looks better the other way,” I said.

  “Like this?”

  “Yeah. Tilt it like that.”

  “Anythin’ you got to say?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Nuthin’ at all?”

  “On second thought there is one thing.” I turned the ignition key.

  The battery got the message. The starter motor passed it on. The spark plugs sparked and the Camaro started up like a dream-mobile on the highway to heaven. “Tell her I’ll see her on the next shuttle to Jupiter.”

  I pulled out onto Center. The accident by the strip mall had cleared up and the police cars drove off. I cruised through town and outside town I pressed the pedal to the floor. Dual carbs, four on the floor, two new plugs and wires. If the Camaro had wings, I’d be flying.

  122

  I woke up Saturday morning with the sun on my face. I had no memory of coming home or when I got into bed, but I had a clear picture of what led up to it: driving to the hospital in the Camaro with the Inspector, tricking the doctors and hiding under the bed sheets, sneaking Uncle Brucker out of the hospital in his official blue suit.

  Three months ago I left my father and my home and moved into the old house with my Uncle. So much has happened since then, it seems much longer. All my plans were my Uncle’s plans. And now that he’s gone, what’s next?

  Who am I now that he’s gone?

  I have no mother. She’s been gone so long, she’ll never come back. I hate my father and he hates me, and there’s no getting around it. My Uncle has gone off to another dimension for the good of the rat in him or they’d both be dead. I have no money. I spent every cent Uncle Brucker left me, including his coin collection. I have no food. I’m out of gas. No wax for the Camaro. The old house is no bargain now that I’m on my
own. Living here means oil bills and water bills. And electricity costs too, doesn’t it? If I want to stay here I’ll have to find a way to make money, or check me in at the Park Bench Hotel.

  Uncle Brucker had been a rat killer all his life, and what does he have to show for it?

  A pile of appliances on one side of the basement labeled Fixable.

  A second pile near the furnace labeled Forget it. And a third pile of garden tools and patio furniture and hedge trimmers in the barn. Thirty-four blenders, sixteen microwaves,twenty-three toasters.

  I wandered into the kitchen and searched through the cabinets and checked the refrigerator, but I didn’t find much. Leroy drank all the milk. Manny fried all the eggs and Bones ate the bread and peanut butter. There’s a half-box of Cheerios I hid under the sink, and cans of soup that Charlee brought over. The half-gallon of milk went sour while I was in the next dimension looking for Uncle Brucker. I guess I’ll throw it out.

  I sat at the kitchen table and poured the Cheerios into a bowl. It’s not half a box, only a cup. I poured in some invisible milk from a brand new quart. I had a few spoonfuls and it wasn’t bad. It would taste better with invisible sugar. Make room for me on the bench.

  I finished breakfast at seven forty-five. The phone started ringing at eight.

  Harriet Grooner phoned first. She lived in a rat-infested area on East Raynor Street. An ugly rat with a chewed-off ear moved into her mailbox where it was waiting to attack her when she opened it up. She has been unable to get the mail for two weeks. Could the Rat Killer please come over and destroy this ugly one-ear rat?

  She had offered the Rat Killer one toaster oven and one Mix-Master the last time he helped her out, but it wasn’t enough. “You want ‘em dead, give me the Blender,” he said. Times are tough and she needs all her appliances. Could the Rat Killer please let her pay with cash?