RESSED IN PINK PANTS, a flowered, loose-fitting top with a stethoscope jammed in the pocket, white tennis shoes, and her dark hair pulled back and tied up, the R.N. stepped to the bed adjacent to Eddie’s and drew a blanket up over her patient. Nurse lay soundly asleep, curled up in a fetal position–elbows to chest, fists to chin, knees to arms–in the comfort of a dreamy escape from the erratic twists and turns of real life.
The nurse was followed by a short woman wearing old-fashioned orthopedic heels. Her ruddy, weathered face was covered in part by a dark ‘60s wig. A medium-green dress hit her mid-shin, and a white jacket, open at the front, its numerous pockets stuffed with notepads, erased any doubts about her medical background: she was a psychiatrist–a ‘shrink,’ through and through.
“Good afternoon,” the woman in the jacket whispered in a soft Scandinavian accent. “I’m Doctor Wochik.” Her lips formed a miniature ‘o’ as she spoke. She turned to the visitors in the room. “You must be Eddie’s friends.”
With Nurse asleep, Cap’n glanced from face to face of the little family, as if inquiring who was in charge. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally blurted out.
The doctor addressed Cap’n, speaking softly. “Can you tell me how you found him?” Before Cap’n could take a breath, she stuck her hands deep in two of her pockets and rummaged around until one hand came out with a pen and the other with a lined, spiral notepad.
Cap’n, a tad suspicious, looked to Ritter, Sound and Smitty for approval, then began. The tiny woman seemed to be no threat and the police hadn’t said a word about their breaking-and-entering fiasco. Still, he’d found it to be in his best interest to be leery of strangers. “Why d’ you want to know?”
“My staff has expressed concern about your friend . . .” she took a quick look at the note pad, “. . . Rebecca.”Cap’n stole a glance at Margaret, who quietly sat near Eddie’s bed, then back at the doctor. “Name’s Nurse, and she took it real hard.”
The R.N. finished checking Eddie’s vitals before sliding a chair behind Dr. Wochik. She, in turn, took her time getting started, first tugging at her dress as she took her seat, then crossing her legs. Stretching her tiny feet, she rested them on tip-toes on the tile floor and slowly recorded some information on her notepad, her pen methodically retracing several of the words. At last she looked up and asked, “What do you mean by ‘took it hard’?”
“Like she weren’t there, but was, and talkin’ crazy ‘bout a baby.”
“Did she say who the baby was?”
“No, but Mrs. Thurston says it was Belle.”
Dr. Wochik jotted down more information before she looked up and repeated the name. “Belle?”
It wasn’t long before the Alley Team was fully engaged in telling all about Nurse, Belle, and the hard lives they’d lived on the street.
In the hard neighborhood partway across town, Stephanie zipped up her bulging overnight bag and placed it on the bed next to Mitch’s open duffle bag. He hadn’t said much since he’d been home. Now he stood across the room, preoccupied with tucking his golf shirt into his loose-fitting jeans.
“I’ll be alright, Mitch,” Stephanie said again as she watched him slip into a pair of loafers. “Is the flight still bugging you?”
Mitch absentmindedly ran his fingers through his thick, damp hair and pulled the collar of his shirt down. “I guess so,” he muttered. “I’ll be fine.”
“You can do anything you put your mind to, honey. That’s what I love about you.”
Mitch gave a half-hearted smile. He was thinking, not about a plane flight, but about the serious predicament he’d gotten them into. He’d go to prison for sure, if Vinnie turned the gun over to the cops. And if he went to prison, he’d break his wife’s heart. What he needed was a little leverage–maybe a lot of leverage–to turn the problem around. Maybe if he went to work for Vinnie he could get the information he needed. Perhaps Bino would help. Or maybe he could just do the smart thing and go to the cops and spill his guts. Maybe, maybe, maybe. . . .
But this is what he would do. He’d drop Stephanie off at Maggie’s, drive back into town, stay at home, as needed, and work out a plan. It would mean telling another lie to his bride, but it was the only logical idea ricocheting around with the hundred other emotions cluttering up his brain.
“I put in your bag three pairs of pants, your work boots, three shirts, underwear, socks, and your ditty case with toothpaste, brush, razor and shaving cream.” Stephanie bent to pick up her suitcase. “I’ll put my bags in the car while you . . .”
Mitch reacted–“I’ll get that.”
“No, it’s light. And I’m not that pregnant yet. Your flight leaves in less than an hour. We’d better get moving.” She bustled out of the room and down the hall. In the kitchen, she swept her car keys from the countertop and frowned at the food on the stove. I’ll stop back later and clean up, she thought.
The ugly thought of two thugs kidnapping Stephanie–or worse– gave him goose bumps. Hearing the front door open and shut, he snatched his bag from the bed and rushed out. He didn’t want Stephanie left alone for even a minute.
Meanwhile, Stephanie’s gaze had already strayed out past the driveway, over the dead and dying weeds between yards, under the shade of a giant Siberian elm, and come to rest on Al, sitting on the side steps in nothing but boxer shorts, beer in one hand, spray bottle in the other. The repugnant smell of filth carried in the hot breeze from his open kitchen door. It drifted around the lazy weightlifter, past the pile of empty beer cans, over the trash, to prick at Stephanie’s nostrils. She quickly looked down to avoid eye contact and paused to wait for Mitch.
Al rested his elbows on his knees, grunting as he leaned forward, and pushed himself from the step. A broken swamp cooler had driven him outside, away from his standard fare of Sunday afternoon cable programming. The suitcase and cosmetic bag in Stephanie’s hand presented too many questions to remain lounging about.
Mitch burst out the front door and surveyed the street and surrounding area for any serious threat. The almost laughable sight of Al, waddling across the driveway, spraying himself down with a fine mist that ran down the cleavage of his sagging chest, over his furry belly and down the front of his boxer shorts, made him look like he’d wet his pants. Hardly a threat.
“Mitch,” Stephanie said, relieved. “I was just about to come back in.” She rolled her eyes toward Al, who was treading tender-footed over the sticker weeds growing at the edge of his crumbling drive. “I’m so sick of his advances, I could scream.”
“Here, let me take that. Let’s go.” He drew the suitcase from Stephanie’s hand. Like his wife, he definitely was not in the mood for any of Al’s wisecracks. “Stay behind me and open the trunk,” he said through his teeth. “I’ll get rid of him.”
They stepped off the porch and down the sidewalk, past the red gravel planter, and set their things down by the trunk of the car.
From the side, Al raised his arm like a boy in a schoolroom. “I got question,” he called out. Then, tucking the spray bottle under his bushy armpit and picking one dirty hoof up off the ground, he hopped on the other, cursing a blue streak. Reaching down over his belly, he tried to pull a sticker from his calloused foot.
Mitch fiddled for his keys. “Go home, Al. You look like you pissed your pants.”
“Al Kostecki don’t piss pants,” he ranted. Stephanie discretely looked down his front in a half-smile and slid her own key into the trunk lock.
The rush of blood in Al’s head combined with the ten beers now flowing through his veins, added to the snapping of his thick neck upward, while still hopping on one foot, he was thrown off balance. He staggered to the left, then listed hard to the right to check his fall. His beer suds went airborne; the spray bottle did a 360 flip and landed on the concrete drive. At the same time, the trunk popped partway open and Mitch lifted the red bag to toss it inside. That’s when the sickening smell and repulsive sight hit him; that’s when he knew there was something else awaiting him inside the trunk besides a spare tire and a jack. Instinctively he dropped the bag and slammed the trunk shut. As he did, the drunken man’s flailing arm slapped the back of the car, The hard, swift blow broke Stephanie’s key off at the hilt. Al then crumpled hard on the drive.
Their brutish neighbor’s thick hand raised to the trunk lid. As he pulled himself up, his combustible temper unleashed itself in a nonstop string of vulgarities. Stephanie stood in shock and anger. Mitch, however, was too dumbstruck to defend her. All he could do was stand there, totally overwhelmed by the ghastly, nauseating, decomposing corpse he’d just witnessed.
This time Stephanie had had enough of Al’s uncouth behavior. “You . . .” she stood shaking her key chain at Al, “you stupid, drunk pervert. You broke my key off in the lock and I’m covered in beer”. Several droplets of dying foam ran down her face and neck onto the front of her shirt.
Al grunted and shook his head. “Al Kostecki not pervert. Voman, I show you one day real man.” His thick thumb sank into his puffed-up chest.
Mitch gasped in relief. Neither Stephanie nor Al had caught sight or scent of Mike’s mangled body curled up in the trunk, nor had they noticed the anger boiling inside him at Vinnie for putting it there. Rather, Mitch was caught up in a brooding, faraway daydream; the gulf between the real and the imaginary was widening by the second. Al’s mouth was spewing trash at Stephanie; she in turn had come out swinging, delivering her own tongue lashing–one Al had had coming for months. “You’re no man!” she mocked. “Real men don’t get charged with sexual crimes and try to intimidate women. You’re just a fat, demoralized, perverted, drunk!” All the while she remained behind Mitch’s perceived shadow of protection.
Mitch, the pressure inside him mounting by the second, clenched his jaw, raised his taut fist, and brought it down like a hammer onto the trunk. The metal buckled from the blow. “Enough!” he screamed. “. . . Al–get out of here and sober up. Stef, get in the car and shut up.”
The rivals, stunned by the act, immediately abandoned the fight. Stephanie skulked around the car and slipped inside. Her husband had never raised his voice at her before. She knew she probably deserved it. Al, on the other hand, stood his ground like a stubborn teenager, mumbling in Russian.
“Well?” Mitch said, eyeing the man, wondering if the confrontation would escalate or end in a stalemate.
“Al not pervert.”
“Whatever you say, Al. Now go home and sober up.”
“Ten beers noting. . . . Ten more–maybe.”
Mitch knew Al would sell his own mother for a case of beer. He pulled from his pocket the cash he’d gotten from Bino and peeled off a twenty. “Fine. Go get ten more–get positively plastered–then sober up.”
Al’s slack-jawed gaze shifted from Mitch to the bill, then back to Mitch. After measuring his pride, he reached over and snatched the prize from his neighbor’s fingers. “I go get drunk,” his voice belched. “No feelings hard.”
Mitch opened the car door, pitched the cases in the back seat, jumped in behind the wheel and backed from the driveway. They’d be late for his ‘flight.’
By then Stephanie had done her best to calm her nerves. She looked down at her shaking hands. “I’m really sorry, Mitch. I don’t know why I went off like that. It was stupid.”
Mitch only could shake his head. “With any luck he’ll buy another case of beer and forget it ever happened. Now listen to me: Don’t go back to the house while I’m gone. Understand?”
Stephanie felt like her heart-felt apology had been completely brushed aside. “You’re not my father,” she shot back, folding her arms across her chest. “And I’m not your daughter.”
“I didn’t say you were. But if you do go back there while I’m away, it’ll be the stupidest thing you ever did.”
“That’s what my father said about marrying you.” Stephanie bowed her head. The hurtful words had arisen from her lips with no thought of how they’d sound.
“Maybe it was,” Mitch replied. The car fell deathly silent. Mike’s body wasn’t the only thing growing cold in the heat of the day.
Dr. Wochik scanned her notes and checked her watch. “It’s agreed, then. If Nurse is willing, you will encourage her to stay here at the hospital and let me see if I can help her work through her feelings. I’ve made arrangements for her to stay here with Eddie. I think they will each benefit from the other’s company.”
The old man stirred at the sound of his name and opened one eye. Sound drew near. “Hi, Eddie. How’re you feeling?”
Eddie rolled his head side to side to see who all was in the room. His swollen right eye left him oblivious to Margaret’s presence. “Like an amateur walloped by the heavyweight champ,” he mumbled from his dry crusty lips.
Cap’n stood up. “Who done it, Eddie? Who shoved ya’ down that rat hole?”
Eddie refused to talk about the incident, or acted as if he didn’t have a clue what they were talking about.
Mitch checked the mirrors for the twentieth time. “I’m not going to the airport.”
“Then where are we going?”
“I’ll drop you off at Maggie’s first.”
Stephanie bit her lip. “But I need my car.”
“It’s not running right and . . .”
“Mitch, you can’t leave me without a car . . .”
“I have no choice.”
“Yes, you do. Go to the airport and I’ll take the car.”
He checked the mirrors again. No one was following them–he was sure of it. “No! End of discussion.”
“What is the matter with you!” Deep within, Stephanie was harboring thoughts of her father, who’d taken her car away when she’d insisted on marrying Mitch–who, she’d always argued, wasn’t anything like her father.
Still buried in a state of crisis, Mitch gazed straight ahead. Maybe her father was right. Hooking up with him was the worst thing that ever happened to her. Pregnant, married to a convicted felon, broke, about to be evicted from their home . . . ; a liar, framed for the murder of his friend, and now hauling a dead body in the trunk of his wife’s car. At last he said, “Stef, I’m sorry, but I can’t explain right now.” Again the inside of the car became quiet as a tomb.
Ten minutes later Mitch stopped in front of Maggie’s. He climbed out and hauled Stephanie’s suitcase and overnight bag from the back seat, carried them around the car and set them on the curb. “I have to go,” he said, opening her door.
Stephanie crawled forlornly from the car, her face streaked with tears. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. It couldn’t be a simple case of flight-fright. So what was it? “Mitch,” she pleaded, “you can’t go away while we feel this way. Please, tell me what’s the matter.” Maggie came out onto the front porch of her modest home. Sensing the friction between the young couple, she kept her distance. Mitch peered over at her, then back at his sweetheart–the love of his life, the love he was betraying. He felt like crying himself. “I’ll call you.”
Mitch turned and stepped around to the driver’s-side door, took one last fleeting glance at his wife, and climbed in.
“Mitch, please!”
As he drove away, a flood of tears cascaded down his face. His gut ached. His conflicting emotions spun totally out of control. Stop and tell her you love her. . . . You’re no good for her. . . . What about your babies? . . . She’ll be safe there at Maggie’s. . . . Mitch–more on automatic pilot than anything–again checked his rear view mirror. No, there was no one trailing him. All he could see was Stephanie’s slumped form, receding in the distance, Maggie, her arm placed gently around his wife’s shoulder, offering comfort.
He wheeled the little car around the corner, skidded to a stop and pounded the steering wheel with both hands. It’s Vinnie’s fault that I’m in trouble with the law, but I’m to blame for everything else! Then a deafening yell rose from his heaving chest, the torrent of bottled-up frustration bubbling up from deep within, surfacing in a primitive scream.