At 6:20 a.m. on the following Monday, Adam, Soosie, and Myron stood at the Pitt’s front door. Dustin did a silent inspection before handing out the bus passes. “Mrs. Fuentes assured me the nursing center would be providing your lunches and break snacks,” he said. “You are to behave appropriately, do your job, and no trouble, got it?”
He entered the code that disabled the house alarm and opened the door. The teens remained immobile, staring out at the early morning sky framed in the open door.
“The zombies are all tucked into bed now, so move your butts,” Dustin commanded.
Goosed by his words, three Pitties straggled out the door.
It was an awkward walk to the bus stop. In trying to keep distance between himself and Soosie, Myron ended up having to sprint the last few yards to make the bus.
They climbed off at the corner of Third and Fir. The care center stood catercorner. Lights were visible through the front windows overlooking the wide front porch.
Drawing a deep breath, Myron stepped off the curb and crossed the empty street. After a moment, Soosie and Adam followed.
Soda Springs Care Center had begun life as a big, square, two-story family home. Over the decades, it morphed from family to institution. Additions included a one-level cement block wing on the right side of the house parallel to the sidewalk. A similar addition jutted out of the back and ended at the alley running through the middle of the block. The left side of the original house accommodated a long wheelchair ramp angled from the veranda-style front porch to the sidewalk.
Stopping at the bottom of the steps, the trio looked up at the door. Unconsciously, they climbed the steps in sync and paused when they reached the porch.
Focused on the door, all three jumped when a voice near the wheelchair ramp spoke.
“Hey, kids. Any of you spot a witch hanging around over there?” The question flowed to them on a cloud of cigar smoke. Looking in the direction of the voice, they saw a man in an electric wheelchair seated in the remaining shadows, the end of his cigar glowing red as he drew on it.
Exchanging uncertain looks, Myron answered. “Ah, no, sir. There was no one at the bus stop.”
The man grunted. “Probably still making breakfast for the flying monkeys.” The cigar glowed again.
The odd exchange pushed the three to punch the large square entry button beside the door. When it swung open, they crossed into the smell of disinfectant and old age.
A few feet inside the room, a table lamp illuminated a large desk appearing to serve as a reception counter. There was no one in sight, although they could hear voices and sounds coming from the back of the center. The empty hallway to their right was dimly lit.
The trio looked around cautiously as they waited.
A small enclosed room with a closed door occupied a corner of the larger room. The rest of the area opened into a space with several retro Formica-topped tables surrounded by an unmatched assortment of chairs. Two vinyl-covered recliners, their arms patched with duct tape, and a loveseat were pushed up against a wall. An entertainment unit housing a large flat-screen TV stood opposite. Stacks of DVDs were piled on its shelves. Although everything was tidy, there was a tired shabbiness to both the furnishings and the room.
But what caught their attention were huge, garish abstract paintings covering much of the walls. The incongruity of the art and its setting gave a weird vibe to the space.
The door behind them swooshed open, and the man who had spoken to them on the porch rolled in. The three instinctively huddled a little closer to each other.
He wheeled over to the desk, where he pitched the stub of his cigar into a wastebasket. Turning his chair, he leaned back to look up at them with bright curiosity through the thick lenses of his glasses.
As he studied them, his wiry gray-white eyebrows drew together. “Is she all right?” he asked.
Soosie was swaying slightly, and a tinge of green edged her pale face. The smell of the facility had sucked the air out of her as it overwhelmed with memories of life exploding and slinging destruction in every direction.
Turning, Myron reached out to touch her arm. “Soos?”
His gesture gave her something to push against emotionally, and in a moment, color flooded her face.
“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
“So, you kids selling something or collecting for some cause?”
“Ah, no, sir. We’re from Pittison House. We’re supposed to meet with Mrs. Fuentes to start working today,” Myron answered.
“So you’re the replacements.”
“Are you Mr. Fuentes?” Myron asked.
“Nah. He’s short and has an accent. I’m one of the old guys from down the hall. When I taught school, I was Mr. Hirsch. Around here I’m just David. What’re your names?”
The teens shifted their weights, looking at each other out of the corner of their eyes.
“What? Are you in a witness protection program or something? Okay, how about this. I point and you tell.” He pointed to Soosie. “Sorry, gents, but I always start with the pretty ones. It’s a good rule to live by.” He waited expectantly.
“Soosie.” Her voice came out small and reluctant.
The man’s tone was gentle. “Soosie what?”
“Soosie Fretwell.”
“Your dad Sam?”
She answered by avoiding the man’s eyes.
“I knew your dad. He was one of my students in the long ago. I’m very sorry.”
Soosie abruptly turned away.
The man watched her for a silent moment before pointing to Myron. “How about you?”
“Myron, sir.” Myron jutted his chin out slightly and stiffened his back. “Myron Tatum, sir.”
“You Vernon’s boy or Ralph’s?”
“Vernon’s, sir.”
“You have my sympathy, son.”
Myron dipped his chin in acknowledgment. The man turned his attention to Adam.
“You look familiar. Real familiar. What’s your name?”
“Adam…Adam Riddick.”
“Do I know your family?”
“Doubt it,” Adam answered.
“Are you sure?” the man asked curiously. “Pretty sure. My mom’s not from around here.”
“What about your dad?”
Adam leveled his blue eyes at the man before shaking his head. There was a hard set to his jaw. “I don’t know who my dad is.”
The man studied Adam for a moment more. Then he pointed at each of them again. “Soosie, Myron, Adam. Of course, this is not saying I won’t get your names confused later. Used to be I could remember every student in my classes just by going around the room one time and having them tell me their names. We’re talking upwards of twenty-five kids times five classes. Now I gotta find my wallet some days just to remember my name.”
The man maneuvered his wheelchair close to the desk and began to pound on a hotel call bell. “You gotta make noise if you want to get any action in this place.”
A very pregnant Latina woman balancing a pile of folded towels in her arms emerged from the hall at the back of the room.
Her progress to the desk was followed by a querulous voice. “Angie? Angie, it’s not in the closet, and I can’t find it anywhere.” A short, skinny person steadily shuffled a walker in her wake.
The kids goggled when the determined advance stopped next to the desk. The person was wearing a vintage nylon blouse translucent enough to reveal the lacy top of the full slip underneath. But the person’s white hair was buzz cut, and stubble sprouted from his cheeks and chin.
“What’s a matter, Paul? Somebody kipe your girdle again?” David asked.
The man cast a disdainful look. “Anyone who lives in sweats is in no position to comment on other people’s fashion choices.”
“Please tell me you can find what he wants to wear,” David said to the young woman. “Or we will all be subjected to still another dramatic recitation on the shortcomings of the laundry room at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And speaking of the laundry room, these are the kids from Pittison. Soosie, Myron, and Adam,” he said pointing them out. With that, David backed up and full-throttled his wheelchair toward the back hall.
Ignoring the kids, Paul turned his attention back to the woman. “Angie, I can’t find my yellow polka-dotted skirt. I want to wear it today.”
“It is in the laundry, Paulie. You wore it the day before yesterday to Emily’s birthday party and got chocolate ice cream on it. I had to soak it.”
Drawing his eyebrows together, the man was apparently searching his memory to verify her statement.
The lights in the hall to their right suddenly turned on, and the kids shifted their attention momentarily.
A very large woman was being wheeled out of a room and up the hall. She gabbled away while gently plucking at the ruffles festooning the skirt and sleeves of a pink, flowered muumuu. A pink play tiara, like those sold in dollar stores, sat on her snow white curls. She looked like an immense, over-decorated cake.
The nursing aide pushing her was almost as startling. Her improbably red big hairstyle framed a heavily made-up face. The neon yellow scrubs she wore looked like they would glow in the dark, as did the matching chandelier earrings brushing her shoulders. She was cooing to the woman in honeyed tones. “Now, Miss Bert, if you ain’t about the prettiest thing today. The boys are going to be falling all over themselves trying to get you to flirt with them. I bet you are going to break all their hearts before this day is over.”
The teens edged closer to the desk as she maneuvered the wheelchair around them to one of the larger dining room tables. The man, Paul, totally ignored the activity. “Well, since all my favorite things are being held hostage in the laundry, I have absolutely no idea what I am going to wear today.”
“Maybe you could borrow something from Bert,” the pregnant woman said, flipping a hand in the direction of the table.
“Really, Angie, that isn’t very nice. There is no way I could wear anything of Bert’s. You know she has absolutely deplorable taste.”
He looked the kids over. “If they are going to be doing the laundry, make sure they know my dainties are hand-washed and not run through the machines with Steve’s jeans.”
He and his walker stumped off.
Angie flashed the kids an apologetic smile before calling across the room. “Olivia, do you know where Elena is? The Pittison people are here.”
The woman responded by pointing toward the teens. “Why, lookie there, Miss Bert. We have us some company.”
The woman in the wheelchair gave them the beatific smile of a toddler before returning her attention to the table, which she was gently patting with both hands.
Hurrying over, Olivia scooped the towels out of Angie’s arms. “You just take a load off, sugar, and I’ll find her.”
In the silence that gathered as they watched the yellow-clad woman trot down the hall to the back of the center, Myron became aware of pressure against his arm. He was startled to realize Soosie was unconsciously leaning into him.
He heard her whispering to herself. “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”