Authors: Barry James Hickey
direction and decided to walk to Acacia Park instead. “Mr. Wirtz can wait,” everyone convinced Amber. Amber went along with
mandatory school meeting. the group vote to skip the Besides, she wasn’t suicidal. Nobody in his or her right mind wanted to meet the assistant principal and disciplinarian at Garfield High School alone. Whatever the meeting was supposed to be about was going to be bad news, anyway.
“Just what I need right now,” Amber thought. “More things to go wrong.”
The little gang liked Acacia, the city’s oldest park in the heart of downtown. There were so many other kids hanging out, the police had their hands full trying to catch drug sellers and runaways. Large shade trees, soft grass carpeting, walking paths, benches, and public rest rooms made Acacia Park a favorite destination for families on weekends when there was live music on stage at the outdoor pavilion.
The Tadpoles usually stayed together in a pack, but once in a while, Marie would slip off with a cute boy or Toby would drift off to the YMCA across the street to join a pick-up basketball game. Amber would sit under a tree sapling and read a book. Matt sometimes wandered over to the picnic tables where old men gathered on occasion for a game of chess. If it were summer, fat Julio would harass kids at the musical bathing fountain until parents banded together and drove him off with the threat of calling the police.
It was the longest nap of his life. When he awoke on the last day, John Battle’s body was drenched in a cold sweat. He cleared his eyes with the soft cotton fabric of the pillowcase and lifted his head to take in his new surroundings.
He was in a strange big bedroom with giant antique furniture and a wall length closet with heavy closed doors. An antique wind-up cuckoo clock read 11:05 a.m. He thought he had just heard the bird coming out of its door singing, “cuckoo, cuckoo.” Maybe that was what woke him.
Pulling back the bed covers, he swung his legs away from the bed to stand on the cool pine wood floor. As he stood, he noticed the fresh-smelling pair of blue pajamas he was wearing. He had never worn pajamas before, not even as a child. The old woman must have changed him out of his other clothes. John remembered small pieces of consciousness; her coming and going, forcing pills down his throat; futile attempts to feed him. He took a few cautionary steps. His thin legs seemed to be working okay.
The door to a private bathroom was open just past the study desk. John gingerly stepped towards it. The glossy pink bathroom was offset by ornate black and white floor tiling. A simple white porcelain toilet and sink with mirror complimented the room.
When he glanced up at the ceiling fixture, the bright white light jarred him. The room started to spin around and around and it took several long seconds for him to regain his focus and balance.
Battle braced his hands on the rim of the sink, trying to decide if he should puke in the toilet or the sink. He hunched over and vomited, just making the lip of the sink.
After a hot shower, John returned to the bedroom. He crossed to the window, his eyes taking in the long backyard surrounded by a high wall in need of repair. Inside the confines of the yard, was an ancient swing-set and a lifeless teeter-totter set in an abandoned childhood sandbox. Faded and peeled Adirondack lounge chairs faced the play area. An older model black Toyota Four-Runner was parked next to a barn-sized stone garage with dual doors that provided access to the back alley or to the front street by the driveway.
His ears picked up the sound of a light wind blowing through the trees, a distant car horn, a mild steady hum from a distant freeway. For a long time, Battle stared at the serene property, the looming range of mountains to the west.
He was free now. Free with enough money for what he needed to do.
He discovered a small television in the corner of the bedroom and turned it on. The image was in black and white. John played with the antennae but couldn’t get a suitable picture. Bored with tinkering, he turned the set off.
He entered the hallway, trying to get his bearings. Under his feet was a bare wood floor with a long Oriental rug as a runner. He found another bedroom of equal size across from his. By the feminine décor inside, he guessed it to be Mrs. Powell’s.
John moved down the hallway, peeking in at a spotless and spartan guest bedroom to the left. Across from that was an artist’s studio. Six large canvas frames leaned on easels, their work hidden by draped sheets. He entered the room, curious about the works of art but politely refusing to look. He stepped to one of the study windows and stared down at the thorny bare branches of a sleeping rose garden below, pondering the possibility of being around to see the roses bloom next spring. Battle returned to the hallway. He noticed a thick rope dangling from a hole in the ceiling, almost out of reach.
The old attic, he realized.
As a boy, he used to play in dusty old attics and dreary damp basements amongst the cobwebs, spiders and centipedes.
He slowly pulled on the rope. It tensed and tugged along old pulleys until the ceiling dropped open, revealing a halffolded ladder on a spring-release fastened to the attic side of the panel. The narrow treads of the plywood stairs were worn down at the centers from decades of use. He wanted to unfold the ladder and enter the attic, just like he wanted to inspect the paintings in the study. But that wouldn’t be right, either. He assumed there were old and guarded memories up those stairs secured in dust-covered crates and boxes.
Someone else’s past, not his.
He released his hold on the rope. The ladder snapped back up to the ceiling, nestling back into place with a loud thud. Disturbed dust drifted down. John realized the ladder had not been opened for many years.
He reached the end of the hallway on the second floor near the rear of the house and stepped down several stairs to a landing below. A large picture window gave him a full view of the backyard again. Something was missing outside, just as something was missing inside the great old house.
He found an ornately carved banister and glided himself down the long set of polished bare wood stairs to the entry hall below.
The library to his left, its tall and heavy curtains drawn closed, was adorned with a pair of gold sofas facing each other and separated by a round marble coffee table cluttered with reading materials. A richly textured Oriental rug filled the floor from wall to wall. Bookshelves brimming with history, geography, science and adventure ran from floor to ceiling all around. Sturdy brass Victorian floor lamps, each wearing its own peculiar painted shade, illuminated the room.
Across the hallway directly opposite the library was the dining room. Its curtains were closed tight but the bright illuminations from a lavish eighteen-lamp chandelier filled the entire area. Directly below it stood a long heavy table suited for visiting royalty with a dozen high-backed upholstered chairs tucked around it. On the south wall above the lit fireplace hung the handsome portrait of a distinguished gentleman wearing a cloth cowboy hat and slicker with a branding iron in his hand. On the bottom right corner of the painting was the indecipherable signature of the portrait artist with the date “1887”. Battle guessed the man in the portrait to be Mrs. Powell’s great grandfather.
He crept towards the rear of the house.
“Hello?” Battle spoke aloud. “Is anyone home?”
“I’m back here,” the vaguely familiar voice of Mrs. Powell answered. “In the kitchen.”
When he entered the kitchen, Mrs. Powell was sipping tea at the counter.
The Loomis House kitchen was a surprisingly bright and cheery room with a high ceiling, bay windows, six-paned glass French doors, and white lace curtains. A heavy support beam ran across the ceiling giving an Old World effect. The entire room had a beautiful southern view. Off the kitchen to the west, was a small glassed-in sunroom, ideal for relaxation in the afternoon and beyond that, a trellised courtyard painted white embraced the house with enormous flagstones underfoot.
“It’s a great view of the mountains upstairs,” Battle said for small talk.
“Beautiful, aren’t they? And only a twenty minute drive to touch them.”
“And your house. Very impressive.”
“Thank you, Mr. Battle.”
“John. Please call me John. How long was I down?”
“Several days.” She handed him a note. “Mr. Hogan called. He says he has some pictures to show you.”
“Already? That’s good news.”
He smiled at her in the most peculiar way before finishing his examination of the kitchen. State-of-the-art equipment fit perfectly in every nook.
“You're smiling.”
“Remembering just how wonderful a kitchen can be.”
“Not too old–fashioned, I hope. Even an old fuddy dud like me needs some modern conveniences.”
John stared at the microwave oven.
Mrs. Powell rolled her shoulders. “Boils water, makes popcorn, saves time.”
“
Saves time
. You'll have to teach me how to use that.”
Mrs. Powell pointed at Battle's abdomen bandage. “Why did you do that? It seems a rather frivolous idea. You have enough medical problems.”
“Like you, I have outstanding debts, Mrs. Powell.” He sat at the table. “Some has-been rock star had the money, I had the kidney. He gets three months use, I get spending money for three months.”
“Hmm,” she said, dismissing the kidney scandal with a wave. “Let’s see what we can expect for you in the near future.” She lifted some papers off the counter. “I visited the main library and did my own research on ‘Glioblastoma Multiforme.’ Let's see where we're at with things, see if we’re in agreement.” She flipped through several pages, showing little emotion while sipping her tea. “You have a malignant primary brain tumor. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Metastatic?”
“Yes. A growing octopus in my head is the way the doctors describe it.”
“It was discovered too late?”
“Just how much did Mr. Hogan tell you about me?” Battle asked, puzzled.
“Enough for me to say ‘yes’ to your care. I know John Battle is not your legal name. I know that you’re well educated. I know you were in prison.”
“Did he tell you how long?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Did he tell you
why
?”
“Why don’t you tell me why, John Battle.”
He looked her straight in the face. “Murder, Mrs. Powell.”
Her voice stayed calm. “That’s what Mr. Hogan said.” She shuffled her papers, unfazed. “Now on to more important things. Can you give me some medical history here?”
Battle recited the pieces of his recent medical history. “I visited the prison infirmary for a year. I had headaches. Doctors thought it was migraines, at first. It took them six months to schedule the MRI…”
“And
then
they found the tumor?”
“Yes. They followed up with radiation therapy, steroids, chemotherapy.”
“But the tumor’s still growing?”
“Yes.”
“Surgery was ruled out?”
“I’m too far gone for that. I must be frank, Mrs. Powell. I’m about to die.
Sooner than later
.”
She nodded in agreement. “I worked in hospitals for many years, Mr. Battle. I have seen death. I don’t envy what you are about to experience.” She set down her tea, crossed to the table and sat across from him. “Headaches now?”
“Mostly in the morning.”
“Nausea, vomiting?”
“Started a few days ago.”
“Any seizures yet?”
“Couple of little ones, that's all,” he lied. “I think the medications are finally controlling them.”
“Diminished ability to concentrate?”
“Not yet.”
“Five times twenty?”
“One hundred.”
“Six times nine?”
“Fifty four.”
“Name the last ten presidents of the United States.”
“You name the last ten presidents.”
She smiled at him. “Irritability?”
“High at the moment.”
She stood up. “I’ll let you drive until I say otherwise.” She took a set of keys off a hook by the telephone and handed them to him. “There’s an older model Toyota SUV parked next to the garage.”
He kept the keys on the open palm of his hand for the longest time.
“You do remember how to drive?” she asked.
“Like it was yesterday.” He stood from the table, rubbing a leg.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “That can't be good.”
“Just a tingle. I can still feel my toes.”
Unexpectedly, Mrs. Powell took his hands in hers. “I’m here for you, John. Day and night. We both know that things are only going to get worse, so I expect complete honesty from you. Okay?”
“I understand.”
“My home is your refuge. Anything discussed stays between us. Regarding your care, all you have to do is ask. Nothing between us should be considered too embarrassing or humiliating. Dying slowly is a hard business.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
“Have you made funeral arrangements?”
“Not yet.”
“Would you like my help?”
“Not at this time, Mrs. Powell.” He fidgeted in his chair. “You said all I have to do is ask… Can I have something to eat?” he smiled.
“Oh me, oh my!” She laughed and pressed her wrinkled old hands to her cheeks. “I must sound like Mother Goose! Just ask and I’ll make or bake anything you want!”
“Anything?”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes lit up. “I will make you fat, John!”
She took his hand and pulled him to the refrigerator, opening it with panache. Inside was a gourmet’s delight. Battle reached in and retrieved a cucumber, smelling it.
“British. No seeds,” she said.
Next he pulled out a tray of enormous strawberries.
“Organic and delicious.”
“And the milk?” He asked, pulling out a quart bottle.
“Delivered fresh from the local dairy!”
“You mean they still have real cows?” He peeled back the protective cap. “Do you mind?”
“Indulge yourself, Mr. Battle!”
He drank from the bottle, sweet milk running from the sides of his mouth when he talked. “I’m falling in love with you, Mrs. Powell!”
“After you taste my French toast, you’ll want to propose matrimony!”
Big Bill Hogan handed a stack of pictures to the man now know as Battle. “As promised. Pretty good diffusion of light, I must say. Framing’s good, too. There’s some real art in that pile.”
Battle thumbed through the stack. The pictures were mostly mundane snapshots of the Tadpoles hanging around, drinking and smoking by the creek. He lingered on some photos, sped past others. A few made him smile absently, as if recalling memories that had long since faded away. He finished with the pictures.
“Good enough?” Hogan asked.
“For now.”
“Since you are still walking the earth, what is your next