When Boomers Go Bad

by Joan Boswell

  “I’m not in the mood for fiction.” I was becoming aware of the fur inside my mouth. “I’ve got trouble enough handling reality at the moment.”

  “But it’s true, every word! I’ve had a very interesting life. Well, I forget the odd detail, but yes, I’ve been every holy cognoggers, the horny catfish, if I could get a word in edgewise for once!” The Judge’s snores, which had sunk to a gentle idle, had built up again to a series of backfires. At Culbertson’s shouts, they stopped.

  “You were asking about my wife, and I don’t mind telling you,” continued Culbertson, raising a shaky hand to find a scab on his knobbly bald head and scratch it, “I used to take the valium to relax my muscles, I was injured on the job, at least my truck rolled on the way to work, not exactly on the way, but it was the company truck. Anyway, my nagging snitch of a wife—oh, she made your father look like an angel! She’d never let anything go, the sour old hag! She got into my prescription and she took a fatal dose of valium washed down with alcohol, that’s what the coroner said. Checkmate!” He brought his hand down and looked with interest to see what he had caught under his nails. “I guess the police wondered if it wasn’t me did her, but you don’t want to hear about that. Suffice it to say they never charged me in the name of mercy could you not keep it down, for crying out the window!”

  My father’s snoring was getting louder again.

  “Somebody enjoyin’ a good snooze!” The aide’s sunny voice was pitched for elderly ears. She was waiting at the door to be invited in. She had a tray in her hand. “I’m bringin’ you a mug of tea, Judge Livermore! I leave it on your tray table!” When my father grunted, she pulled the curtain aside. Then she pressed a button to raise the back and the sides of the bed. My father opened his eyes.

  “My God, you’re as black as the ace of spades!” he said.

  “Black is beautiful, Judge Livermore!” She turned her smile to me and lowered her voice to normal levels. “Mr. Livermore, when you have a minute, the social worker is in her office now.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, nodding to Culbertson, who was unashamedly eavesdropping, and to my father, who was ignoring me. “Maybe it’s about a single.”

  The young social worker’s desk was tidy and furnished with flowers. She radiated health and sanity and competence. I wondered if I looked and smelled as bad as I felt. I wondered if she had even heard of the days of corporal punishment, or if she would consider shaking a child unconscious a fairy tale on a par with an arsenic omelette.

  I told her that the Judge was distressed, and in a lot of pain. It was all pretty hard on him, and it would help a lot if he could be by himself. He was happy to pay any extra charges. I thought his roommate might also prefer it.

  She let me talk it all out, then nodded and smiled her warm understanding. “Naturally you and I can’t discuss Mr. Culbertson’s situation. I can tell you that we’re doing our very best for your dad. His well-being is our number one priority. He’s a fighter, and that’s a big plus for his recovery.” She spoke with convincing authority.

  When I got back to the Judge’s room, his curtain was closed again, and I smelled fresh aftershave. “He closed it to take a leak, and he dozed off,” Culbertson said. He leaned forward and pounded his chest. When he had caught his breath, he smiled wickedly. “That’s what we’ll tell them. But the fact of the matter is, I killed him for you, the old walrus. He deserved it after what he did to you. Admit it, you’re glad.”

  “Grunt-onk Onk!”

  “I guess I must have been kidding about knocking him off,” Culbertson said.

  “It’s not that funny.” I sank back into the chair, extended my legs and closed my eyes, hoping Culbertson would take the hint and shut up.

  “I kid around a lot. But the confounded noise he’s making it might be what they call the death rattle, no offence. Anything can happen, I’ve seen it myself, I’ve had a very interesting life, but enough about me, what do you do, Douglas? I know you live an interesting life. You’d probably rather not talk, you look washed up.”

  I kept my eyes closed. “I haven’t slept much. I started out from northern British Columbia at four o’clock yesterday morning.”

  “Way out West! No wonder. What took you out there? My last roommate came from out west, well, west of the city, pretending to be so friendly, filthy rich, always with the clean pyjamas, reading his book, hey, are you awake?”

  I opened my eyes.

  “I didn’t want to wake you, but I was pretty sure you couldn’t be sleeping through Beethoven’s last movement, if you could turn down the arfing decibels!”

  The orchestra of my father’s snores broke off mid-phrase. I thought of a child crying then suddenly stopping. A nasal duet for piccolo and snare drum began to whimper from behind the curtain, but at a lower volume. Satisfied, Cubby reached for the still untasted mug of tea.

  “Then bam! Trouble in paradise. He starts sneaking out to the sun porch for cigarettes, coughing his guts out all night, how they expected me to put up with that I don’t know. His heart failed, that’s what the coroner said. Checkmate! But you don’t want to hear about that hey you old farthingale why don’t you wake up and drink your nice tea!”

  How crazy was this roommate, I wondered. Could he really...but no, he was virtually bedridden.

  “A call of nature! I tell you, old age is not for sissies!” The skinny fellow pushed himself upright and then used both hands to shove the table to the foot of the bed. He gave a button on the console a wobbly poke, and the bed lowered itself. Then he took a deep breath and slid his skinny legs over the side.

  “I thought you needed help,” I said.

  “Why, that’s right, so I do.” He smiled up at me, large head shaking from side to side. “I sometimes forget. Ever since I had my pneumonia, I can’t get in and out of the chair without help. I’m virtually bedridden. If you weren’t here, I couldn’t possibly get out of bed. Oop-la! That’s good. Don’t worry about the john itself, it’s got a gadget that shifts me.” He motored away into the bathroom and closed the wide door. I heard an electrical whine and another “Oop-la.”

  As soon as Culbertson was behind the bathroom door, I pulled back my father’s curtain. He was sleeping peacefully, his mouth open, his cheeks vibrating with his snores. I tried to picture the face fifty-five years younger and swollen with rage. I couldn’t see it at all.

  Culbertson was clearly a crazy old man. But who knows what separates the ones that are crazy enough to be dangerous? Or feeble enough to be harmless? Or bad enough to deserve what they get? My father’s mug of tea and Culbertson’s looked identical. I sniffed, but all I could smell was the ambient aftershave. I felt myself sway. I was so tired, it literally hurt to think.

  When I replaced the mug beside my father, he lifted his head and glared.

  “What?” he said. “What now?”

  “Your tea is here,” I said. “I’m leaving the curtain open.” Now that I was on my feet and the curtain was open, the room seemed smaller.

  “Daddy, please look at me.” I tried to smile and speak clearly. “What you were talking about before, when I was a baby—that isn’t just out of style, that was a bad thing you did to me.” My father’s eyes lost focus, and his gaze shifted to the wall. “To me,” I said. “Not a puppy.”

  “What are you talking about?” He waved at me as if I were smoke. “What kind of nonsense is this to bug an old man? If I want tea, I’ll damn well drink tea.” He reached for the mug and winced.

  “You didn’t hear me coming, did you?”

  I jumped at Cubby’s voice behind me. He had scooted to the side of his own bed and was waiting with his shoulders slumped, looking at the hands shaking in his lap. “I know how to move silently. It’s because I’m part Indian, or at least I’ve spent quite a lot of time with them.” He leaned towards me as I lifted him into the bed. Small as he was, my back still protested. “Oop-la!” He settled back and summoned his tray table. “At least reading about them, they taught their children t
o sleep silently not like a hibernating bear!”

  “Watch yourself, Charlie,” my father barked. “I’m a superior court judge, and you’re Charlie-nobody. When I say jump, you say how high!”

  “Just you wait, Your Honour!” Cubby gave me a wink and took a trial sip at the straw of his beverage cup. “Ah, that’s the stuff,” he smacked his lips and sucked deeply. He spoke in a stage-whisper so that my father wouldn’t hear. “All I had to work with, you see, was my knowledge of human nature. So I doctored my own cup and got you to switch them.” His voice went back to normal. “Heeh! You still don’t know when I’m kidding, do you? Don’t worry, I can alibi you, we can alibi each other. I hope you wore gloves.”

  “Tea,” grunted my father. “About time.” He raised the mouthpiece to his lips to suckle greedily, then he spat. “This tastes like plumbing!” He extended his tongue and drew back his lips.

  “Oh dear,” Culbertson shoulders shook with excitement, “your father doesn’t seem to be enjoying his tea. Or should I say my tea? Hear that old man, your son poisoned you, you abusive nutso freak bustard, you’ve just guzzled poison!”

  I saw a big red button and pushed it. A bell rang and a light came on.

  “I emptied my ring in my own cup,” Culbertson shouted over the bell. “I started dropping hints, lies, some of them. I made him think the poison was in your cup. I gambled, and I won. Checkmate!”

  “Silence I say, you’re out of order.”

  “You’re dead, so shut up! You’re poisoned, and you’re dead.”

  “I didn’t switch the cups, Cubby,” I said. “I thought about it, you’re right. Then I remembered you were a chess player, so I switched them back. Then I realized I didn’t want to poison you either, and there was more tea down the hall. Dad’s a chess player, too, I wanted to tell you that before I left. You guys should have a game, have some fun together. I never got the hang of all the feints and gambits.”

  “Damned draft dodger, you’re getting on my nerves,” roared my father, his eyes screwed shut.

  “Was I wanted?” the aide popped her round face around the door. “Sorry it took me a minute, we were all busy. Must be a full moon!”

  “Mr. Culbertson tried to poison my dad. The cups he used are by the sink. I don’t know the right response to this, but I’m sure you do.” I gathered my jacket and my flight bag. “I have to go phone my wife, I’m out of my depth.”

  She picked up the two cups and wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Culbertson, what did we agree about you poisoning people? Don’t worry, Judge Livermore,” she raised her voice, “Mr. Culbertson’s bark is worse than his bite. In the first place, he’s bedridden. Best thing is just ignore him, then he stop. You have your new room soon.”

  Cubby looked stubborn. “Won’t do any good, I’m resourceful, I’ll track him down, and I swear I’ll get him, we’ve got a score to settle, the old chicken strangler.”

  “You’re not leaving me with this homicidal maniac,” said my father glaring at the ceiling in alarm. “He’s making death threats.”

  “Mr. Culbertson is no threat, Judge Livermore,” said Martha, folding her arms in a no-nonsense gesture. “No way he can get out of bed. You going to be fine.”

  “You think you won’t die like the last one did?”

  “Make him stop bugging me,” demanded my father. His voice rose in pitch. “I order you to shut him up!”

  “Take it easy, Dad,” I reached over to pat his knee, but I could feel him cringing from the touch. “Don’t panic, it makes things worse.”

  “Yeah, don’t get paranoid, Livermore. Relax and enjoy it.”

  “No!” shouted my father, “You’re bothering me.” His face was stupid with fear and frustration. His hands clutched blindly at the railings beside his bed, and he shook them as if to shake some sense into them. “No! No!”

  The aide pulled the door shut behind us. “You put it out of your mind, Mr. Livermore, it’s just the anger and the depression talkin’,” she said. She pushed the elevator button for me, flashed a conspiratorial smile. “It’s hard for them to adjust. You know what they say; denial is more than that river in Egypt, and a lot more live in it than crocodiles.” She hurried off down the wide French Provincial corridor. I pulled out my scribbler to make notes, never mind making sense of it, just the details so I won’t forget.

  Jenifer McVaugh studied philosophy and literature at the University of Michigan, where she won a Hopwood Award. She divides her time between the Ottawa Valley, where she owns the Bookstore in Golden Lake, and the Sierra Madre Mountains of western Mexico. Her novel The Love of Women is available through Borealis Press. Alfred Hitchcock and Antigonish Review have published her short fiction. Her most recent publication, the long poem “First,” appeared in Oyster Boy Review.

  The Top Ten

  Cruisin’ on a Friday night

  Listenin’ to A.M.

  Been lovin’ that Top 40

  Since I was close to ten.

  Listenin’ to Bobby Darin

  Singin’ Mack the Knife

  Dreamin’ that Paul Anka

  Would never take a wife.

  Wishin’ I could be like

  Little Brenda Lee

  And hopin’ that Del Shannon

  Would Runaway to me.

  I thought, He’s A Rebel

  At least a Duke of Earl

  You were my Johnny Angel

  I was Blue Velvet girl.

  Now I’m...

  Bruisin’ on a Friday night

  Listenin’ to you shout

  Easier Said Than Done

  To try to throw you out.

  Listenin’ to your rantin’

  Thinkin’ of a knife

  Dreamin’ where I’d stick it

  If I just weren’t your wife.

  Wishin’ you were nicer

  When you talked to me

  Oh Where Did Our Love Go?

  Do Wah Diddy Diddy Dee.

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  RendezVous Crime

  BONE DANCE

  Music may soothe the savage breast, but in this collection from the Ladies’ Killing Circle, music provides the background for tales of murder and mayhem. Stories and poems take their inspiration from titles as varied as the upbeat “Wake Up Little Suzie” through the romantic “Summertime” and musicals such as “There’s No Business Like Show Business”. You’ll never listen to your favourite songs again without wondering what nefarious deeds they may have inspired.

  ISBN 1-894917-05-7, 272 pages,

  5 1/8” x 7 1/2”, $12.95 U.S., $14.95 CDN

  FIT TO DIE

  Sport, fitness, games and murder are the main themes of this collection of muscular crime fiction and poetry. From the gym to the golf course to the supposedly peaceful practice of tai chi, murder, rage and revenge refuse to respect the human quest for immortality through fitness and can victimize the most tanned and toned bodies as easily as those of couch potatoes and gourmands. Excessive good health can lead to an early demise in this energetic anthology.

  ISBN 0-929141-87-3, 288 pages,

  5 1/8” x 7 1/2”, $12.95 U.S., $14.95 CDN

  www.rendezvouspress.com