Authors: Jada Ryker
Marisa jumped up to join the others crowding around Fred’s chair. “‘One member of the group is a quiet, conservative woman in her late thirties,’” Marisa read aloud in dismay. “‘She’s a high level manager at the trauma hospital, surrounded by the sick and maimed every day. Unbeknownst to the patients and staff, her disfigurement lies on the inside, not the outside. After years of going to work drunk and spending her weekends at a notorious strip club, her life was on the brink of disaster. She pulled back from the edge of the abyss by checking herself into a substance abuse rehab center. Now, she attends the addiction group as a support measure to keep herself out of the strip clubs, out of jail, and out of the unemployment line—’” Marisa’s voice rose to a shriek as she stepped back from the computer and met the horrified eyes of the others. “How difficult will it be to figure out who I am from that description? My God, I got into treatment and this group to save my life and my career and my sanity. And now, I am going to lose everything because of a loose-lipped son of a —”
Chase reached around Fred and scrolled down the article. He roared like a wounded elk. “‘One man spent his work time juggling pictures of naked women on his computer, instead of juggling class schedules. It was the principle reason he lost his job—’ oh, how freaking cute. The asshole spelled ‘principle’ as ‘principal,’ as in school principal!” He threw himself into the chair next to Maurice.
His voice hoarse, the man known to the group as Dustin read over Fred’s shoulder. “‘Another group member is a prominent member of our community, well-known for his philanthropic attitude and his eternal devotion to God. If everyone knew about his pesky habit of paying for sex from male prostitutes, what would they think…’”
Marisa had noticed the compact Dustin at the first meeting he’d attended. In addition to his impeccable ensemble of shirt, tie, perfectly pleated dress pants, and beautifully shined shoes, he always wore sunglasses, a scarf wound around his neck and lower part of his face, black gloves, and a short-brimmed fedora.
His body shaking with rage and shame, Dustin pushed away from the computer. “It’s true. The upright pillar of the community had a propensity for cruising the streets, looking for young men, and paying them for sex.” His laugh was low and grating. “The fact it’s been ten years since the last…incident…will be irrelevant.”
Catching the back of a chair as if he was staggering from a physical blow, Dustin leaned over. Like a fish slit from mouth to tail, he was open, his vulnerability exposed in his clenched, gloved hands, his voice, his slumping shoulders. His eyes were closed behind the sunglasses, as if he couldn’t bear to look at anyone. Like a freshly sharpened knife, his own shaking voice dug into his own open, wounded pain, flaying it without pity. “Caught, literally, with his pants down.” With his long exhale, his anger and his pain flowed through the room, the heat scorching everyone it touched.
The room was so silent Marisa could hear the hum of the overhead lights. During her time in the addiction program, she had met several high profile men and women who had been caught by the media or law enforcement in circumstances which were related to their various addictions. And of course, the news was always full of well-known people, including political and religious figures, caught up in sex or other addiction-related incidents.
She wondered if they were drawn like moths to the flame of the excitement of risking everything to indulge their addictions. Or, she thought, perhaps the strain of maintaining a perfect public life contributed to the need for a secret life. Marisa frowned. Or perhaps it was neither. She knew addiction pervaded all social and economic levels. A public figure “caught” in compromising circumstances was way more likely to make the news than the local convenience store clerk found in the same situation.
Dustin reeled over to the large window. His body bowed in misery, he pressed his face against the smudged glass. He snapped to attention. “TV cameras! Reporters! Live feeds!” He turned around. “We’re trapped in here by the press!”
I’ll have to move away. Change my name. Become a nun. In spite of the circumstances, Marisa felt a tiny bubble of humor. Maybe not a NUN. After all, she was an addict.
Sierra was sobbing in great gulps, tears pouring down her face like a summer rainstorm. Her face was twisted in pain. And something else. Guilt.
Marisa took a step toward her. Her eyes narrowed. “Sierra?”
Sierra flinched at the accusation. “He-e-e was so nice to me. He really wanted to hear what I had to say.”
Every face in the room turned to Sierra.
She had morphed from Amazonian sex goddess into a toddler, huddling in her chair in tearful misery. She wailed, “I didn’t know he was a reporter!”
The expressions trained on Sierra ranged from rage to despair.
Chase’s biceps bulged as he clenched his fists. “You big-mouthed bitch! How could you? Whatever you wanted to say about yourself was your business…but running your mouth about us was totally wrong!” His face set, he slid toward the crying woman. “Thanks to you, I’ll NEVER find another job!”
William stood up. “Chase—”
Like an enraged bull catching a red flag in his peripheral vision, Chase swung toward William. “It’s easy for you, you child molesting little pervert. You’re a registered sex offender. All the details of your crimes and your personal information are already posted on the internet!”
William’s deep breath and long exhale broke the sudden silence. “I’d gladly trade my total exposure for your open-to-interpretation innuendo.”
Sierra wailed, “Stop it! I’m in the article, too! ‘The desert is not so arid in the addiction world…in fact, it’s hot, juicy, and dark. The six foot guard at the gates of the hidden realm, her ebony skin blending with the velvety darkness, only opens the doors for the magical words, which include compliments, flattery—’ How many six foot tall African American women have the same name as a desert?”
“You haven’t even glanced at the computer! You knew! You knew before the meeting started, and you didn’t even try to warn us!” His twisted face red with fury, Chase advanced toward the huddled Sierra.
Marisa grabbed his arm. “No! Wait, all of you!” Marisa looked around at the angry faces. “We’re all here, seeking help and support. And so is Sierra. Yes, she betrayed us, but she is human. She did wrong, her actions were ugly, but she’s still one of us. We still love her.”
Dustin squared his drooping shoulders. “Marisa is right. The reporter used Sierra’s vulnerability to get information. With this article, he not only exploited Sierra; he exploited all of us.” He huffed out a breath as the tension level in the room dropped, and Welton awkwardly patted Sierra’s shoulder. “In the meantime, the press has us neatly boxed in. They haven’t come in, I suppose because this is a church and there are other activities and groups tonight, definitely not addiction related. We can’t stay in here forever. We might as well face it now.” Resigned, Dustin reached for his scarf with one hand and his sunglasses with the other.
“No!” Marisa’s hand on Dustin’s gloved one was authoritative.
As Dustin turned to her in pathetic hope, his hands dropped slowly to his sides.
Marisa’s eyes fell on the rakes and hoes leaning against the wall, and the coat hooks with the neatly hung smocks and the straw hats. She turned to Fred. “Fred, you drive buses for a living.”
Despair etched in the lines of his body sprawled in the chair, Fred wearily lifted his chin from his chest.
“Can you get a bus out here?”
Straightening in his chair, Fred frowned. “Sure, but how would a bus help us?”
Marisa handed her cell phone to Fred. “Get ready to be a bunch of Baptist gardeners, full of the divine spirit, ready to dig right in.”
Dustin groaned. “The reporters aren’t going to buy it. Churchgoers gardening on a weekday evening? They’ll be suspicious and follow us.”
“We dress in those smock tops and wide-brimmed hats and we quietly troop onto the bus. We ride it to the outskirts of town...to the Eternal Afterlife Cemetery. Even if they follow us in, all they’ll see is a bunch of people pulling weeds among the headstones. If they take pictures, the outfits will protect our identities.”
* * * * *
Pushing back the strands of damp hair from her perspiring forehead with one hand and massaging her aching back with the other, Marisa looked around her. In the quiet cemetery, surrounded by trees, the members of the group bent and stooped among the headstones, busily pulling weeds. She smiled. Because of the hats and long, baggy smocks, even Marisa couldn’t readily identify the others.
Picking her way around the graves, Marisa walked up to their impromptu bus driver. “Thank you, Leonard. Really. You saved our lives.” She went up on her toes and kissed his florid cheek.
Leonard’s blush started at his neck, flooded his face, hit his ears, and stopped at his hairline. In a habitual move, he hitched up his pants. The waistband immediately slid back to its normal position under his protruding belly. “When Fred called and asked for help, I was glad to oblige. Just let me know when you’re ready to head back to the church.”
As Marisa turned away, Sierra caught her arm. Since she was six inches taller, Sierra bent down to whisper in Marisa’s ear. “Thank you, Marisa, for your quick thinking. A man will pinch your ass, but a woman will save your ass.”
They gently bumped their fists together.
In the fading sunlight slanting across the patio of the Home Away from Home nursing facility, the hopeless, hunched elderly men and women strapped and tied in their wheelchairs were scattered like haphazard tombstones, each erected in memory of forgotten lives.
In that moment, the nursing home reminded Marisa of heart-rending photos she’d seen of concentration camps. The despair was thick and choking, spreading like a relentlessly insidious wave. It oozed over the blank, wrinkled faces and the emaciated, androgynous forms covered by tatty polyester. As if waiting to be consumed by the thick tide of misery and ultimately death, the thin bodies lifelessly hung against their bonds, any fight against their fates long extinguished. Perhaps the sticklike limbs would rise in welcome or even supplication, if Death were to approach them.
At a corner of the patio, a nursing assistant in her maroon uniform was like a disinterested prison guard, slouched in the metal chair with her eyes on the magazine fluttering in the gentle breeze.
Waiting for Althea Flaxton to join her in the shade, Marisa felt her nose prickle and tears wet her eyes in the presence of the residents, elderly prisoners of their own deteriorating muscles, bones, and brains. She wanted to bundle Althea in her car and take her away from this soul-sucking place. Marisa knew Althea would not go with her. The older woman was fiercely independent, and would dig her heels in and lay her ears back like a stubborn mule.
In resignation, Marisa forced herself to focus on the gentle sound of water dripping on concrete. The warm summer breeze changed direction, sliding over Marisa’s flushed face. With it, the strong, acidic smell of urine filled her nostrils. With a start of repugnance, Marisa realized the dripping sound was coming from an ancient lady hopelessly drooping in her wheelchair, slightly upwind from her. The old woman’s bulky diaper, visible in the wide gap between her patterned smock and worn pants, leaked yellow liquid which continued to steadily drop to the concrete patio floor beneath her wheelchair.
Marisa’s nose wrinkled as she looked toward the nursing assistant engrossed in her magazine.
Why doesn’t she change the poor woman?
When a figure joined her on the bench, Marisa jumped. “Althea! I didn’t hear you coming!”
Her triangular, lightly lined face reminiscent of a small, finicky cat, Althea grasped Marisa’s hands. “Marisa! What’s this about a murder at the hospital? I saw the report on the evening news!”
“Althea! I am so sorry! I should have realized you’d see it on television.”
“What happened, my dear? Please tell me.”
Marisa’s full lower lip trembled and her brown eyes filled with tears. She shook her head helplessly, sending the loose braid at the back her neck flying into greater disarray. Marisa squared her shoulders and said, “Let me alert that nursing assistant to this poor woman’s need for a dry diaper.”
When her friend returned, Althea turned to her. Sternly regal in her elegant green, long-sleeved, high-necked silk blouse with her treasured cameo pinned at the throat and her hair swept up at the back of her head in a neat bun, more silver than black, Althea’s thin, sensitive fingers tightened on her friend’s hands. “Marisa, my dear, I’m not a fragile old lady who must be packed in cotton wool, safely cushioned from the more unpleasant aspects of life.”
Marisa opened her mouth to speak, but Althea, her prominent cheekbones flushed with the vibrancy of her rising passion, forestalled her words by grasping her cold hand.
“Can you feel the warmth and pressure of my hand? It might be old, knobby, and weak, but the body it’s attached to is still very much alive and the brain functions just as well today as it did thirty years ago. Please, my dear, don’t close off your life to me, thinking it’s too unpleasant for me. I want—” Her low voice broke and the color drained from her cheeks, leaving them pale and vulnerable. “No, I need to be a part of your life, good and bad. I know how hard it was for you to tell me about your addiction to alcohol and painkillers, and I know you felt it was an incredible weakness on your part to have to go to rehab. No, my dear—” Marisa tried to look away in shame, but Althea gripped her chin and forced her to meet her eyes. “—it wasn’t weakness at all, it took great strength for you to do it. I am so proud of you. We made it through that…don’t shut me out now.”
Her eyes prickling with hot tears of shame, Marisa turned her palm upward to clasp Althea’s thin hand. “I’m sorry, Althea, you deserve more than what I’m giving you. You were there for me when I was a child. You opened your home and your heart, and you showed me love.”
“Marisa, you know you don’t owe me allegiance.”
Blinking away the tears, Marisa gently squeezed the older woman’s hand. “You have my love, Althea, freely given.”
“And freely reciprocated, no debt on either side, my dear.”
Marisa glanced over her shoulder, and noticed the bleary eyes of the resident locked on her face. With the golden fountain still running beneath her as she slumped against the seatbelt of her wheelchair, she seemed to be staring in their direction. It was difficult to tell if the bloodshot orbs were trained on them or inward at some long ago event dredged from a shaky old memory. “Let’s move over to the bench at the edge of the patio, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Sometime later, Althea sat in the dusk of the summer evening, thinking about her friend’s story. She turned on the metal bench to meet the younger woman’s troubled eyes. “What do you think Jonah was trying to tell you?”
“I just don’t know, Althea. I’ve gone over it so many times in my own mind, and of course with the police, it’s left me numb and bewildered.” A single tear slipped down her cheek. “Jonah lived life on the edge. He made his living by collecting information, then either selling it to the highest bidder, or accepting money to keep it secret.”
Althea brushed away the glittering tear on her friend’s cheek with a gentle finger. “It sounds as if his dangerous lifestyle caught up with him. Someone didn’t want to pay him to keep him quiet, or risk him telling anyone what he knew. He or she could have killed Jonah to keep him quiet, for good.”
Marisa turned her cold cheek into Althea’s comforting palm. “It makes sense, Althea. But what did he know?”
Althea sighed. “We may never find out, my dear.” Althea’s hand flew to her mouth. “Marisa, Jonah’s grandmother passed away this morning.”
Startled, Marisa jumped up from the bench. “Jonah’s grandmother died the same day he did? My God, do you think there could be a connection?”
Since her room was near Jonah’s grandmother’s room, Althea had overheard the argument that morning between the angry old woman and her grandson. Althea related to Marisa all she knew about the encounter.
Could Jonah’s grandmother have been murdered as well? Was the old lady silenced because she knew too much? Or was her death merely a freakish coincidence? Was Althea in danger?
Marisa’s hand tightened on Althea’s thin fingers.
Althea sniffed in outrage. “Can you believe the disgusting flock of elderly hens chasing after that dilapidated, strutting old rooster, fawning and slobbering over him like he was the king of the henhouse?”
Surprised at the sudden twist in the conversation, Marisa pushed her frightening thoughts away and focused on her friend. Automatically, she followed Althea’s angry gaze. Across the patio, a mild disturbance was taking place at the patio doors.
A trio of elderly ladies, all dressed in the finery of bright colors and glittering jewelry, erupted through the doorway with the aid of wheelchair, walker, and cane. They were hard on the heels of the dapper figure of an older gentleman with a magnificent wooden cane at his side. Like determined birds of prey, each female seemed intent on bagging him as a companion. One of the more aggressive women eliminated one of the competitors by simply sending her wheelchair careening across the patio. At the same time, the two remaining ladies managed to snag a blue-jacketed arm. They began to pull him in two different directions.
Marisa’s eyes sharpened. As the victor of the little skirmish practically wrestled the older man onto a bench, Marisa realized the glorious head of silver hair looked terribly familiar. She remembered he’d been a patient in the rehab wing of the hospital, but she’d thought he had been discharged to his home. “He seems to be in great demand. Of course, he’s quite dashing,” mused Marisa, “and very handsome with his full head of silvery hair and the striking profile. In fact, if I were much older, I’d certainly be feeling some heart palpitations right about now.”
“For goodness sake, Marisa, don’t let him hear that. His head is so swelled now, it’s a wonder he can fit through the door.”
Marisa’s eyebrows rose. It wasn’t like Althea to speak so harshly of anyone. Marisa wondered if Althea felt the same tug of attraction as the other ladies. She shook her head at her whimsy.
As the dusk deepened into darkness and the patio lights flared into life, a sudden warm breeze danced across the patio. Marisa leaned against Althea’s thin, sweater-clad arm, and allowed the companionable silence to seep into her bones. Feeling the warmth and the love of the thin figure next to her, Marisa realized she’d nearly regained her equilibrium.
The evening had nearly slipped away from them. The soothing song of the crickets filled the evening air, and Marisa could see the bright yellow dots of fireflies on the shadowy grounds.
Presently, Marisa rose. “Would you like a glass of tea before I leave, Althea?”
Returning with a glass in each hand and using her elbow to operate the automatic door button, Marisa heard the low, neutral tones of the figure in white next to her friend.
“Good evening, Mrs. Flaxton. It’s a fine, summer night. Do you want to take your pills here or go to your room first?”
Not wanting to interrupt Althea and her nurse, Marisa paused, the glasses cold in her hands.
“You’re a very lucky woman, Mrs. Flaxton.”
Althea cocked her head.
In the near darkness, the nurse’s cap of short red hair looked dark and her white uniform glowed. “You’re lucky. Soon, you will return home. You won’t lie here, month after month, year after year, waiting for the angel of death to come and claim you.”
“Angel of death?” Althea’s voice rose in surprise.
“The black shadow of the angel of death swoops through the night. She gathers the soul of the dying to her bosom, and transports it to a sun-filled plane where pain and suffering do not exist.” The soft, monotone voice was nearly mesmerizing.
“I assure you, Ms. Crimpton, I have plenty of productive years remaining in my life.”
“I was thinking more of the poor souls who are terminally ill, their lives prolonged solely to salve the conscience of the physician and the family. They are forced to spend their remaining time in pain.”
“What a dark view for the caregiver of geriatric patients.”
At Marisa’s dry tone, the nurse jerked in surprise. “Miss Adair! I didn’t see you standing there!”
“Obviously.”
Angelique Crimpton patted Althea hand. “I don’t think any nurse’s agreement with the patient’s right to choose or reject heroic life-saving measures is a ‘dark view.’”
Marisa’s eyebrows climbed her clear, high forehead. “Is that what you were discussing with Ms. Flaxton?”
“Yes, Miss Adair.” The nurse stepped closer to Marisa, her eyes wide, dark pools. “I believe each adult should decide his or her fate and not leave the decision to someone who may not respect the last wishes.”
At the burning fervor in the other woman’s voice, Marisa unconsciously backed up a step. Her fingers gripped the sweating glasses. “I can assure you, Althea has made her decision, and the documentation is in her medical record.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ms. Crimpton inclined her head. “I must continue with my rounds. Good night, Mrs. Flaxton, Miss Adair.” The nurse glided to the door and silently slid through it.
* * * * *
After a shower and donning her oldest flannel pajamas, Marisa settled in her bed with her latest book. With the images running through her brain, she couldn’t concentrate. She thought of Jonah, dead or dying, sliding down her desk, until she forced her mind away from him. And then, her mind skittered to Althea, helpless in the sprawling nursing home, surrounded by the inky black trees. In her mind’s eye, Marisa could see tendrils of white mist in the forest.
Mist…a cemetery. As she stared at the pages of her book, Marisa remembered the old, neglected graveyard on the grounds. Mrs. Hill, the nursing home administrator, had tried to get permission to raze the old tombstones. Because it was a historic site, not to mention hallowed ground, her request was denied.
Marisa shot straight up in bed, sending her book flying to the floor. What if that was the cemetery Jonah had been talking about? Not long ago, one of the nursing assistants had told her and Althea about the cemetery and the path to reach it, and had waved in its general direction.
After a wild ride through the dark streets, Marisa guided her car through the tree-lined driveway and into an empty spot in the parking lot of the nursing home. Shivering, she gripped both her flashlight and her resolve. Marisa strode through the parking lot and into the woods. Playing the beam of the flashlight on the ground, she found the trail the nursing assistant had mentioned.
As she pushed past clinging branches and sticky spider webs, Marisa thought she heard something behind her. She stopped and cocked her head. A scurrying in the underbrush was probably an animal. She let out her breath and pushed on.