Huge

by James Fuerst

  The bus they used for day trips was parked in front of the home when I pulled up. You could tell it was an old school bus because all they’d done was slap some green paint on it and write OAKSHADE RETIREMENT HOME in white lettering on the sides. Other than that, it was the same kind that used to shuttle me to school every damn day, until I’d started taking the Cruiser instead. Then again, the retirement home itself used to be the town’s elementary school way back when, and it still looked every bit of it. It was one of those sprawling, one-story, U-shaped brick jobs, with tall glass windows, a long concrete overhang leading to the front entrance, and a large parking lot in front. When the town coughed up the dough for a new school, the old one was bought up by investors who must’ve figured that since the building already had offices and a cafeteria, all they’d have to do was divide the classrooms into bedrooms, add a tiny bathroom to each, hang some Sheetrock around so it didn’t look exactly like a detention center, pack it to the rafters with the weak and weary, and keep the linoleum floors in the hallways for that institutional touch. I didn’t know how much they’d forked over for the property itself, but I was positive that they hadn’t spared a penny on the renovations. Nah, they’d spent all three.

  As I got closer, I saw about twenty of the inmates lined up alongside the bus on the front walk: old men in golf shorts, leather sandals, and dark socks over lumpy, blue-veined calves, elderly women in plaid elastic-waist pants or shapeless dresses, pale white skin glowing in the cloud-laden light, everyone in jarring colors and wraparound sunglasses, some wearing heavy sweaters although it was already eighty degrees, plastic tote bags and fanny packs, umbrellas and fishing hats, handheld radios with earpieces, walkers, canes, each one of them complaining about something different, but all of them jockeying for position, trying to get on board. Irma was standing at the front of the bus, wearing a green blazer and a white blouse, smiling her chubby, patient smile, clipboard in hand, nodding her head, writing down names as the old-timers climbed onto the coach, assuring them that there was plenty of room, reminding others to use the can first, asking some if they’d remembered their pills, and generally working the crowd, telling them how much fun they were going to have, like they were kids.

  I saw grandma’s head in one of the bus windows, barely high enough to notice, all giggles and anticipation, like a kindergartener on her first trip to the petting zoo. She waved at me and blew a kiss and I waved back, but I didn’t go over. I couldn’t. The whole scene was so goddamn depressing that it practically gave off a smell. There they were, all worked up, raring to go, like flea markets and outdoor auctions, slot machines and casino buffets, horse races and early-bird specials were worth looking forward to, when everybody knew they were just ways of wasting time and money until it was all over. It made you wonder what was the point of living a life if that’s what it came down to in the end. Then again, it wasn’t like the alternative to living was a hell of a lot better.

  I chained the Cruiser to the NO PARKING sign out front, went inside, shook the goose bumps from the A/C off my arms, and saw Bryan behind the front desk. Damn, his ears were big. I took the envelope out of my backpack and slapped it down on the desktop. As usual, he didn’t look up.

  “Where are they off to?” I asked.

  “Hey, squirt,” he said, because he had a really endearing way with people. “They’re going to the auction in Collingwood. They’ll be back this afternoon. Is this the money you owe me?”

  He was wearing a pink short-sleeved collar shirt with one of those gay little alligators on it, like four gold chains of varying length and thickness, white wristbands on both forearms, and diamond studs in his ears. You could tell he had no idea what he was supposed to be—guido, preppy, or andro—so he just threw together whatever he had in his closet to see what came out. The result was total lameness.

  “The name’s Huge.”

  “As if.”

  What a douche. “Where’s Kathy?”

  “She starts at nine.” He looked at the wall clock. “In like two minutes. So don’t cream yourself, okay?”

  This guy was really asking for it. He opened the envelope, removed two twenties and a ten, and held each of them up to the light, like he was checking to see if they were counterfeit. Then he looked toward me, somewhere slightly above my head, and said, “Well? Shouldn’t you be out terrorizing the neighborhood? No, wait, wait, don’t you have two dollars to collect?”

  He turned his back and snorted, apparently cracking himself up. I’d seen Better Off Dead, too, and while the movie was funny, his reference to it wasn’t. But it gave me an idea.

  “No, I’m waiting,” I said, and after a long, casual pause I added, “for my receipt.”

  Bryan stopped and turned around. “Receipt?”

  “Yeah, you know,” I said, “a little piece of paper that proves we gave you money?”

  “I know what one is, runt,” he said, staring down at my neck, “but what do you need that for?”

  Runt? He was about five inches taller than I was and he was like thirty. But I let it slide. “Just what I said,” I said. “We pay you in cash, so how do I know you’re not putting that money in your own pocket?”

  “Who are you, the junior division of the IRS?” He snorted again, because he seemed to think he was hilarious. “Look, I’m doing you guys a favor by calling you in the first place. You know why? Because failure to make biweekly payment in full without prior approval through submission of a waiver form”—he shook a piece of paper at me—“is grounds for contract review and possibly dismissal from residency in the Oakshade Retirement Home. Check the fine print, Mighty Mouse.”

  He made a wheezing sound when he laughed, like a whoopie cushion with a leak.

  “Wanna guess how many of these your grandmother’s filled out? Right, zero. And instead of making a major production out of it and forcing her to do paperwork, I just get the money from your mother and put it toward her bill. I’m taking care of you guys, so don’t give me any more static.”

  Like that noodle could force grandma to do anything.

  “I won’t,” I said, “as long as you give me a receipt.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” he heaved, fixing his eyes on what I guessed was my ear. “If I give you a receipt, I have to enter the fact that I gave you a receipt in this book here, and if I enter it in this book here, then I have to record it in that book over there, the red one, see? Then, all of a sudden, there’s a record that your grandmother’s checks come up fifty dollars short from time to time, because an additional cash payment will be logged in the ledger, and if that happens, then the head accountant will ask me about it during our quarterly review, because that guy is suspicious as hell and doesn’t miss anything.” He was breathing so hard I thought he might faint. “And you know what that means, Einstein? That means he may decide to pull your grandmother’s contract for review, because the very first thing he’s gonna think is that she can’t afford to live here, because that’s what he’s paid to think. And believe me, you don’t want that guy on your case.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t. I want a receipt.”

  Bryan’s face turned a delicate shade of pink, like his shirt. The symmetry was lovely to behold.

  “Are you dense or something?” His voice was shaking. “This is a business, Tiny Tim, not a charity, and the owner, Mr. Silver, is a real bastard when it comes to money. Receipts that point to a history of short payments are exactly the kind of excuse he’s always looking for to kick someone out and charge the next person in line that much more. So I can’t give you a receipt, get it? In fact, you should be thanking me for taking care of your grandmother and saving you guys a lot of hassle. So do me a favor for once. Just take your dolly, get on your Big Wheel, and pedal off. Quit busting my chops.”

  “All right, you can’t give me a receipt. Fine, I get it,” I said. “Just mail it to us, then.”

  “Mail it?!” He curled his skinny fingers into fists.

  Up to that point, I�
�d never realized how high-strung Bryan was.It almost made my plan too easy—to pester him with a phony request, keep peppering him with jabs, pushing his buttons, just long enough for Kathy to arrive and catch him in the act of yelling at me. Then she’d let him have it, or at least see for herself what kind of prick he could be. Grandma would’ve been proud of me, and it’d keep Bryan out of Kathy’s pants, at least for a few more days.

  But when Kathy walked in—all lickable legs, swishy hips, and bubbly, bouncing boobs—she was intercepted near the door by Cuthbert Stansted, dressed neat and tidy as ever in his three-piece suit, who had his arm around poor old Livia. Cuthbert was a good twenty years older, but they were both short and small and bowed and hoary as all hell with age, and the way they were clinging to each other made it look like if one moved away too quickly, the other would collapse. Not that there was any danger of either one moving too quickly, but still. They said something to Kathy, she gestured just a second to them with her hand, and then she walked over to the front desk.

  I realized Bryan had still been talking at me when the buzzing in my ear finally went quiet, but he never had anything important to say, so it didn’t matter that I’d missed it. As soon as Kathy got to the desk, he switched off of me completely, like I’d vanished.

  “So what are those two up to?” Bryan grinned.

  “Livia says something is missing from her room,” Kathy whispered, looking down.

  “It’s more like there’s something missing from somewhere else.” He dragged an index finger very subtly down the side of his temple.

  Kathy frowned at him. “That’s not nice, Bryan, even if it is true. And Cuth says he can verify it, so don’t you think we should go check it out?”

  “Oh, Jesus, here we go,” Bryan huffed. “All right, lead the way.”

  As Kathy turned, I saw Bryan palm one of the twenties I’d just brought and pocket it. I can’t say I was completely surprised. I’d always wondered how he afforded that souped-up IROC of his, and maybe now I was finding out. Kathy led Bryan over to the other two, and since nobody was paying attention to me, I hung back a few steps and followed.

  Livia’s room was in one of the back corners of the building, like grandma’s, only it was in the other prong of the U. It took a long time to get there because Livia took the tiniest steps and drag-shuffled her feet when she walked, as if she were making sure the bottom of her shoes touched every square inch of flooring on the way there. She had Cuthbert on one arm and Kathy on the other, and she kept telling them, “It’s gone,” “Someone broke in,” and “They steal from me” over and over again. Cuthbert tried to commiserate, saying how awful it was and that he knew it to be true because he was a witness, while Kathy reassured her that they were going to get to the bottom of it. Bryan seemed in a hurry, because he’d gone up ahead and was out of sight. As for me, well, whatever was gone from Livia’s room or whether anything was missing at all, it didn’t really matter. The whole thing just made me feel sorry for her.

  Once the others caught up, Bryan pulled a key chain out of his pocket, opened the door, and they all went in, while I waited down the hall for about a minute or so before creeping to the threshold to have a peek. Inside there was a small dresser, a sitting chair with a matching footrest, a single bed, a nightstand, and a couple of lamps. Pretty much standard issue at the home, only Livia’s furniture looked about thirty or forty years more out of date than everyone else’s and gave off that dull sheen of too much wear and tear. There was a framed photograph on the dresser of a man, a woman, and a little girl who must’ve been her family, although it was anybody’s guess because she wasn’t in the picture with them. Everything else was old tabloids and gossip magazines, dust and doilies, and metallic centrally cooled air.

  Cuthbert was pointing at the nightstand under the window, with Bryan standing right behind him. Kathy and Livia were on the other side of the bed, closest to the door.

  “There, right there,” Cuthbert said. “I escorted Livia from the television room last night, after our program had ended, and I noticed it resting on the corner as I bid her good evening from the doorway.”

  “But it’s not there now?” Bryan asked.

  “Apparently not. Nor, however, was it there when Livia awoke this morning.” Cuthbert put his hands on his hips when he’d finished, as if to say, Deal with that, sonny.

  “Is that true, Livia?” Bryan asked.

  “Yes, Bernie.” She nodded sadly. “It’s gone. Someone broke in and stole it.”

  Bryan winced but didn’t correct her. “All right, all right. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Let’s all just look around and see if we can find it first. Cuthbert, will you please check around the dresser? Kathy Livia, will you two please look on the floor around the bed where you are?”

  Everyone started searching, and Bryan knelt down in front of the nightstand, sliding his hand in his pants pocket as he did so. There were twenty good reasons for my eyes to be on him, so I saw him do it. Then he ducked down under the nightstand, like he was reaching back to the corner behind it, and as the others started calling out that they’d come up empty, Bryan said, “Aha! Found it.” Livia, Kathy, and Cuthbert crowded around him and he held up the loot. Then he told them that everything was fine, no one had broken in and nothing had been stolen, the money had just fallen behind the nightstand where Cuthbert and Livia couldn’t see it.

  I didn’t know whether to applaud him or to scream out that he was a liar, a fake, and a thief and sound the alarm. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there and that my opinion wouldn’t be welcomed, but I couldn’t let some bullshit like that pass without comment. “Wow, it’s really lucky you found the money, Bryan,” I said, sneering.

  He looked across the room at my shoulder and said, “We’re having grown-up talk in here, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you run along and play?”

  “I do mind. My grandmother lives here, too, and I just want to make sure the place is secure.”

  “Well, as you can see, it is. Thanks for your view, though.”

  “It is? Really? Did you check to make sure that the window next to the nightstand was locked, or that the screen behind it hasn’t been moved or tampered with?”

  Bryan froze.

  “You know something,” Cuthbert said, reaching up to finger the top of the windowpane, “the young man does have a point. The window is not locked.”

  Bryan spun around and locked the window, almost knocking Cuthbert over as he did. “Well, it’s locked now. Problem solved. Anything else?”

  “No, you’re right. Problem solved. Except…”

  “Except what?” The color was rising in Bryan’s cheeks again.

  “Well, except for the corner of the nightstand.” I stepped into Livia’s room, toward the dresser on the left, and ran my finger along the top. “See how everything else is covered with dust? The corner of the nightstand isn’t. So how come the corner of the nightstand, the place where the money was, you know, right next to the unlocked window and all, has no dust on it? Why is that the only spot that looks like it’s been wiped clean?”

  Kathy Cuthbert, and Livia all glanced around them and then turned their eyes on Bryan.

  Bryan forced out a laugh. “Ha! That was a good one. Really. You almost had me. For a second I thought you were serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  “No, you’re not,” Bryan beamed. “Because you don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s where Livia always puts her money, isn’t it, Livia? So, naturally, there wouldn’t be any dust there. And since we already found the money that was supposed to be stolen, maybe you should admit that the case is closed. I’m sure we all appreciate your concern.”

  Lying, patronizing asshole. Worse still, I was already losing the others, even Kathy and I knew it. The money in hand was too much for them to ignore, and as for how it actually got there, it would be his word against mine. But I wasn’t done just yet.

  “Yeah, well, I am concerned. I’m concerned that mone
y goes missing from Livia’s room only to miraculously reappear, and I’m concerned that the front sign was vandalized and you guys haven’t done anything about it. How about that? Have you even tried to figure out who did it? What if the one has something to do with the other? What if the vandal and the burglar are the same person, or working in cahoots? Why aren’t you concerned about that?”

  “We are, honey—” Kathy started before Bryan interrupted.

  “We are concerned, all of us.” He swung his arm outward, as if to include the others. “And we’ve already called the police, so we are doing something about it. But that still doesn’t make this any of your business.”

  “Oh, yeah, Bryan? I got twenty dollars says it is my business.” I knew Kathy, Livia, and Cuth wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the hell that meant, but I wanted Bryan to know that I knew where things stood.

  He faked a helpless shrug and asked Kathy to make sure everything was all right with the others before motioning me down the hall. We stopped about a dozen feet from the doorway and he whispered angrily, his beady eyes glaring at my chin.

  “What are you trying to do, Buttinsky start a panic?”

  “What are you trying to do,” I shot back, “cover up a crime?”

  “Come off it, already. Nobody knows if that money was stolen or not. Jesus, this is the fourth time in the past month she’s pulled the same thing—somebody broke into her room and stole twenty dollars. But the sad truth of the matter is that her family doesn’t send her much extra cash, and at this point she isn’t sure if she ever had twenty dollars or not, and Cuthbert is blind as a bat, so he doesn’t know it either.”

  “But that still doesn’t—”

  Bryan cut me off, his temper kicking in. “Can’t you see all you’re doing is encouraging them to believe that someone broke in and stole from them? Do you know what that’ll do to them? Do you? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be old and alone, far from your family? There isn’t a lot for them to do but gossip and complain and worry themselves sick over the tiniest little things. And if they start thinking the home is under siege by criminals, well, Jesus, that’ll really set them off. This place will be a madhouse by morning. Is that what you want? For them to think they aren’t safe, that someone’s after them, just because you said so? Is that what you want your grandmother thinking when she tries to go to sleep at night? Well, let me tell you something, kid, it’s my job to keep the peace around here and that’s what I’m doing. You may not like it, but it works, so unless you have a smoking gun to hand over to the police, you should keep your mouth shut.”