Acknowledgements
I fell in love at first sight. Sure did! We are now growing old together, and I still fall in love with her anew each day. Thank you, Elizabeth. This little masterpiece would have never seen the light of day without you. It always has been about being true partners, hasn’t it?
I have some friends, real friends. Several of these stories are drawn from some of the best times in our lives, as we like to say. Thanks Sam. Thanks Martin. It goes without saying that I have sincerely enjoyed the ride.
And then there are Beth and Jen, my little girls all grown up with kids of their own. Beth, you were my first inspiration. Jen, you were my first editor and confidant. Both of you are always there for me, and you will never know what that means to your dear old Dad.
Speaking of your kids, my grandchildren, I started writing for them. I guess I wanted them to discover something a little different in the attic when I am gone. So boy and girls, I will still haunt our special place in the mountains. Curl up on the leather couch and see if you can capture a little more of me while I roam with the bears.
I wish to publicly acknowledge the one who gave me the guts to hang it all out there. Peggy thanks for the guidance and support. You told me I could tell a story and actually made me believe it.
And here’s a shout out to the support cast. Thanks to Susan and Gary, Mark, Jeff, Michelle, George and Sarah, and Edward.
Finally I would like to remember and acknowledge one of my close family members who actually had to face the different kind of killer.
Author’s Notes
The title story in this book, A Different Kind Of Killer, is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and have no relationship whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. All incidents are pure invention. The other short stories in the work are drawn from memory and are loosely based on the author’s experiences. The works have been fictionalized to enhance descriptions, dramatic, and comedic effect. The names in these stories have also been fictionalized to protect individuals who may have shared these experiences with the author.
Contents
A Different Kind Of Killer
The Canoe Trip
Blood On The Leaves
Swamp Story
Lenny
Something Shiny
Dead Dog
A Different Kind Of Killer
Chapter One
“Hemorrhoids. We need to stick to hemorrhoids, arthritis, cataracts and such as that, Joe. It was bad enough when Millard had that damn heart attack. You could have gone all year without dropping THIS bomb on us. You have to be kidding.”
“Come on Dick,” countered Joe.
“I told you guys months ago at Millard’s house, the night he won that big pot with four 10’s. I told you I was worried about it. Remember? Y’all tried to make me feel better. Millard said he forgot stuff all the time. And Mack, you said you did too. I told y’all it runs in my family, and that I was going to be tested. You guys got upset with me for talking about it then, too, remember?”
“Well, I got the test results yesterday. I took a whole battery of tests over several weeks. I had a thyroid exam, an EKG, a brain scan, a four-hour memory test, and a genetic evaluation. I really screwed up the memory thing. I couldn’t remember things they told me two hours earlier. But the kicker is that no one can really diagnose the disease. My doctor told me that the tests appear to indicate that I do have the marker for early onset. I probably have the gene. But, he told me it didn’t mean I would get any worse. He wants me to wait a while before I draw a line in the sand. But, there are just too many things going on with me. I have it. I know I do. I probably have six months to a year before I’m totally mindless. The early on-set kind takes you fast.”
“So the doctor never diagnosed it,” asked Dick?
Joe did not answer at first. He gathered himself and took a deep breath, looking at the three men sitting around the table with him. Silently he wondered why it was so difficult to explain. If it had been pancreatic cancer, they would have immediately understood. He had been all through this with his wife. This was a different kind of killer. Then he tried again.
“Not in so many words. He told me it was still too early to call in the family, as he put it. But he did start me on a prescription. Now does that tell you anything? I’m not joking with you guys. Trust me. I have done all I can to scope this stuff out. I’m heading down a road of no return, and I don’t want to believe it either. I don’t need your sympathy. I brought it up because I need your help. Trust me on this.”
The appeal to his friends for help seemed to work. They had often reached out to each other for help with all manner of things. Mack immediately jumped right in, probably too quickly as the moment seemed more appropriate for a pause.
“What in the Hell can we do? You know we will do anything we can. How can we help you with this?”
And so, Joe laid it all out, right there at the poker table. His memory was going fast. Simple things were confusing at times. He knew men of his age, their age, became forgetful, but what he was experiencing was different. He knew what would happen eventually. He was following in the footsteps of his mother and an uncle. He had seen first hand what it did to them. He had watched as the disease took them away, leaving only a faint shadow of what they once were. Now, this was his fate. He went on to give more detail, to make sure they all knew what he faced.
Joe was the strong silent type, a man of few words. But, when he did speak others tended to listen. And so his buddies leaned in closely to their friend and clung to each word. Joe wrapped up with an explanation of the various types of dementia and paused to catch his breath. The others sat back a bit in thought.
But Joe was not finished. He had one more thing. Without any hint of emotion, Joe tossed out a single straightforward request that blasted through Millard’s apartment like an artillery shell.
Millard gasped. Mack leaned back in his chair. Dick stared directly in Joe’s eyes.
For a while an eerie silence filled the room. It hung there over the group like it actually had a form and substance.
Joe had just asked them to help him commit suicide.
Millard sucked in air like he had been hit in the stomach. In a way he had.
“No, you can’t do that,” Millard said softly, more to himself than to the others.
Joe did not respond.
Several minutes went by without another word. Joe sat with his arms folded starring at his small pile of chips on the table. Millard busied himself with half a glass of iced tea, stirring it, as if the swirl would somehow clear the air. Mack took one last bite of the chocolate cake that Millard had made for the group. He chewed it far beyond the need to do so, finally swallowed and then froze, keeping his eyes glued to his plate. All were deep in thought.
It was Dick who broke the gloom. “Hell, Joe, you want my help, you got it. That’s it. Pure and simple! I want desperately to argue with you. I want to change your mind, find a way out, and all that. But we haven’t been kicking around for 30 years for nothing. I know you aren’t playing here. It sure sounds like you have given this a great deal of thought, and your mind is set. Honestly I can’t say I wouldn’t want the same thing if I were in your shoes. I’ll do what I can.”
Mack chimed in quickly in similar fashion but Millard was obviously troubled. He twisted in his chair and blinked nervously, his bushy eyebrows bobbing like grit was in his eyes.
Then Millard said, “ Joe, I will help you. Some way, I will help you. But I have to give it some thought. You know?”
The group always seemed to coalesce. They had been close for a long time. Two prison officials, one deputy-warden, and one prison guard. All retired. Like many friendships, these had grown out of years of shared working experiences and almost daily contact in the facility.
Joe was tall and handsome still at age 62. A weathered and tanned Gary Cooper with pale, blue eyes. Joe was a comfortable dresser who wore jeans and nice shirts. He was likeable. Speech, slow and deliberate. Fun to be around but serious minded at the same time. At work Joe had been a go-to guy. He had been respected throughout the facility by staff and many inmates alike for a friendly, helpful attitude. He had the uncanny ability to talk with anyone with a problem and help each understand what needed to be done next. He often said he never once told anyone what to do. He just listened.
Thus too, women adored him. He didn’t seem to notice. That made him all the more attractive.
Joe had married too young. He walked down the aisle before both he and his wife had graduated from high school. He was just eighteen when the first of three kids was born. He ended up divorced before he was 28. There was no child custody fight per se. Joe just lost them. The judge had simply said that children belonged with their mother, as was the thinking in the day. His wife returned to live with her parents. Soon they moved to the west coast, and he seldom ever saw or heard from the kids again. Friends and coworkers occasionally glimpsed a wounded soul hiding within the strong, easy- going man they admired.
Joe managed to pull himself together and get into college after losing his kids. He continued working at a paper mill at night to pay for it. Perhaps because of his own problems, he drifted into the field of social work.
He had remarried less than ten years ago to Sarah, a widow. They had both been lonely. She had been happily married for twenty years to her high school sweetheart. She could not have children but that setback seemed to make their bond even stronger. Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack, but in a way, both she and Joe still lived with him.
Millard, also 65, had served as the prison’s Administrative Services Director for decades. He graduated from Duke University with a CPA but had difficulty finding employment. He was not the type for prestigious firms. As some would say, he marched to the tune of a different drummer, but he was fully accepted and prized at the prison. Millard was highly intelligent. While an accountant by training, he fast became an expert in all the endeavors of the facility, including personnel, purchasing, finance, and so forth.
Millard looked like an older John Belushi. Dense eyebrows. Thick hair. Dark. Curly. Never combed. Owlish glasses. Pale skin. Obese. Soft. Out of shape. Rumpled. He wore dated sport coats from resale stores with blue shirts. He was known to pop buttons and simply wear the shirt anyway.
Mack was the youngest at age 60. He had spent 10 years with the military. He was a highly decorated combat Marine having fought valiantly in the jungles of Vietnam for close to four years. He had recently retired from the prison system receiving full retirement benefits for twenty years of experience in the high-risk job category. Mack had turned down chances for promotion to stay in the ranks of the guards preferring the action and, perhaps, the danger.
Mack still carried himself like a Marine - military haircut, khakis and sharp matching shirts. He was short. Five ten at most. Bulldog build. Exercise junkie. Gym rat. Amateur boxer. He had large dark brown eyes the color of rich coffee and resembled an older Marlon Brando in The Streetcar Named Desire, only much tougher. Two small jagged scars on his face from shrapnel seemed to prove the point.
Mack was married to his wife Betty a few weeks before shipping off to Vietnam. They were devoted to each other and as much in love now as they had ever been. The couple had three boys and spent a lot of their free times visiting with their families which now included ten grandchildren.
Dick had been Mack’s Company Commander in the war. After there were no more battles to fight, he found himself bored and out of sync with peacetime operations and command. He heard about a managerial opening at the prison from Mack who was already working there. He came to Pensacola, stayed with Mack a few days, and explored the options. The warden interviewed him several times, immediately sent his own deputy directly into retirement and hired Dick to fill that job. The warden welcomed opportunities thereafter to tell everyone that he was not about to let that man walk out the door. Dick loved the deputy position, which put him directly in charge of all staff and all operations. He was back in an active command again. Hands on, he roamed the “joint” leading and solving problems by asking questions, actively listening and empowering people, cons and staff alike.
Dick was 73 but looked ten years younger than he actually was. Like Mack he continued to work out. Clint Eastwood look and style. Steel eyes. Confident. Courageous. Dick was universally admired for standing tough with his men. It didn’t matter if it was in a foxhole under fire or in the cells with violent criminals. Those who fought and worked with him would have followed him to the gates of Hell, as many were apt to say.
Dick married late in life to Marcy, a divorcee. This marriage worked splendidly for both of them. She had had two daughters; each now married with children of their own. Thus Marcy already had a family and Dick just made it his as well.
Millard was far different than the rest, and he often wondered how he managed to fall in with them. But as it turned out they had a mutual love of the outdoors. Over time they somehow managed to spend a lot of their free time together. They camped, hunted, and fished as a group for decades. They became very close, a solid mutually supportive circle of true friends.
But Joe’s request for help from the others to commit suicide would test that support system. It was not the same as helping a buddy put up a utility shed or driving one of the guys to and from a medical clinic for a colonoscopy. Joe was asking for help to do the unthinkable. And as Millard might have said, that was a horse of a different color.
But right then and there at the poker table they responded to Joe like he had asked each of them to loan him a sizeable amount of money. It was surprising and very unusual. But not a man at that table would deny another. They all expressed a need to think more about it and agreed to sleep on it until the next poker night. But, think about it or not, they committed to do it to a man.
The group met four weeks later. They preferred the comfort of Millard’s apartment for their regular poker game. Besides, Millard always provided great food. The wife had dumped Millard decades ago for the proverbial pool boy, and he had settled comfortably into an older bachelor’s life style. Partly as a result of going it alone, he became an excellent cook. The four joked a bit and then quickly quieted down to play poker. But they all knew there was more on the agenda. Something else would hit the table soon.
Millard’s mind was definitely not on the game. He said nothing about it but he had not slept well since the last time they got together. Often he found himself wide-awake contemplating the situation. He really wanted no part of this. He was Catholic and had been taught long ago that suicide was a mortal sin. So too was assisting another to take his own life. In no way did he want to lose his best friend.
Also, Millard was not as tough as the others, and he knew it. He was an over-weight accountant for crying out loud. He liked to bird watch, take wildlife photos and fish but really didn’t like to hunt and was uncomfortable sleeping out in the woods. But Mack, Joe, and Dick had always accepted him just as he was. They didn’t mind doing the majority of the work in camp. They appreciated his wry sense of humor. They laughed at his puns and jokes but respected his intelligence at the same time. They just pulled him along, made him one of the pack. And he had had loads of fun over the years. Millard was without family, and he knew that Joe, Mack and Dick were all he had.
He was deeply troubled, much more so than the others. But, he had come to one conclusion. This time, yes this time, right now, he was going to be strong. He would do some heavy lifting too. He would be there for Joe and for all of them.
After they had played a dozen rounds or so, Mack brought an abrupt end to the banter about sports and politics. He jump-started a dialogue on the subject that was on everyone’s mind.
Mack had lost some sleep too. He tossed and turned wondering about Joe’s wife. Mack tried hard to imagine what he would do if his wife Betty wanted to kill herself. He couldn’t see it. He assumed he would care for her for as long as he could and then place her in a facility. He just dreaded the idea that he would ever lose her. Yes, that’s what he would do.
But Mack understood that Joe had actually walked down this bitter trail before. He did lose loved ones, including his own mother! Joe had to have been in agony at times. He saw firsthand what the disease did to a human being. They ceased to exist and lived on without a hint of who they once were. Why should Joe live that way? What sense did it make? Besides many people commit suicide rather than confront a long, medical ordeal.
Mack needed a few more answers to help him get comfortable with assisting a friend commit suicide. But comfortable or not, Mack knew that he would do what he could for Joe.
“Have you discussed this with your wife?” Mack asked.
Joe didn’t hesitate. He addressed this question and the others to follow with a calm certainty just like he had been asked if he wanted a beer.
“I have. I told her a couple of months ago that I did not want to live with the disease. At first she was shocked and very upset. We argued for weeks. Finally she said she understood. There is no life insurance so there is no loss there, and she will remain eligible for my retirement benefits. In truth she will be much better off without spending every dollar we have trying to keep me alive in some nursing facility. After a while I won’t even recognize her. My mother lived for twelve years without knowing who or where she was!”
Mack continued, “If it were her, Joe, if she wanted to commit suicide, what would you think? What would you do?”
“I guess I would be upset too. I wouldn’t want to be alone. But if she had had the personal experiences with Alzheimer’s that I have, I think I would eventually see it her way.”
A discussion of the impact on a spouse ensued. Each member of the group except Millard had more to say on the matter.
Then Dick surprised them all by looking Joe directly in his eyes and confronting him with a related issue.
“Joe, I always thought that suicide was a very selfish act,” he said. “You will be depriving all those who care for you, including us and many other friends you have at the prison.”
“Dick, I have thought about that. Yes, it is a selfish act in a sense, but the disease will take me long before I die. It will deprive you of me just like it deprived me of my mother and uncle. And I’m here to tell y’all, this way of losing someone is far worse than almost any other way of dying. You can grieve for a decade for crying out loud. Think about it,” Joe said in his slow and direct manner.
Later, after the group appeared to exhaust the issue of the impact of suicide on the survivors, Millard finally revealed his own particular torment.
“You guys know that I am Catholic. I still go to mass although not as much as I should. We were taught that suicide is a mortal sin. Dante placed people who commit suicide in the lowest level of Hell! Those who commit suicide take from God what is Gods. In the nineties I believe, the church softened that somewhat and allowed that someone who does it might not be fully culpable if they are mentally ill or seriously depressed. I’m not here to argue the point, Joe, but I think you are rushing things. You are not out of your mind. You have time yet to live.”
A half hour flew by as the four jumped headlong into a discussion of the religious aspects of suicide prompted by Millard’s remarks. Then, Joe seemed to end the evening by sharing his conclusion about religion and God.
Joe had had a religious background of his own. He had attended a small and conservative Baptist church from very early in his childhood. He remembered well the constant threat of fire and brimstone for deeds done or imagined. He even admitted that he and his wife married young ,in part, just to have sex. But, he came to believe that God was not the Old Testament figure who punished man for every imaginable sin. He preferred to visualize God as a loving God, merciful and forgiving. And, although he never went back to a congregation, he believed in God and felt he would be forgiven for what he was about to do.
As the evening wore on, the cards were forgotten. But, the men had been doing some dealing of their own. They hashed it out. They picked up the subject of suicide and looked at it in every way they could, given their collective experience. In the process they totally lost interest in everything else, including a fine homemade pie that was chilling in the refrigerator.
Finally, Dick brought an end to the discussion.
“O.K.,” he said. “It sounds to me that we have milked this subject dry. We seem to have concluded that suicide is a highly personal act, even though it is a social concern as well, influenced by culture, law, religion and experience. And we know that some states are considering making assisted suicide legal. We can go on all night. I think Joe has not been rash. I believe that he fully explored both his illness and his desire to commit suicide. Seems to me he knows exactly what he is about to do.”
“I may not like losing this old SOB,” Dick added looking at Joe. “And by the way I’m double checking to make sure he doesn’t owe me any money. I think I remember loaning him $50.00 at our October game five years ago. I don’t believe I ever got that back! But seriously, I understand why he wants to do it. So, we came here tonight to offer our support. Let’s get on with it. Joe, how can we help?”
Joe hesitated a second as if looking for the right words. Then he jumped in with both feet.
“First, I really want you guys to understand that you are very special to me. You are like family. I appreciate all of you. I can honestly say I have spent the best times of my life with you three. And, I mean that.”
“If y’all can’t see yourself doing something crazy like helping an old fool end his life, I sure would not think any less of you. Please believe that. But to be honest, I want very much to have y’all with me when I do it. For support, you know. I’m almost embarrassed by this, but I don’t know if I could handle it alone. I know it’s a lot to ask but I would appreciate some company. It doesn’t have to be all of you, but…”
Mack quickly interrupted. “ Hell, Joe, we understand. That’s a given. You don’t need to say anything more. We have your back, man. Isn’t that right, Dick?”
But, Millard, already anxious to speak his mind, grabbed the floor first.
“Joe, I may not be any good skinning a catfish but I do know how to be a friend. You, Mack, and Dick showed me how. I consider all of you brothers. Who else do I have? I’m done thinking about it. I want to be by your side, and I certainly will be.”
As soon as Millard stopped talking, Mack jumped in with similar but more expansive sentiments. He expressed warm feelings for all of his friends. He recalled losing buddies in the war and swearing that he would never allow himself to ever grow close again. Mack summed up by confirming that he had indeed found new friends and by God he was not going to desert Joe or any of the others now, even if it meant watching another buddy die.
Then the group fell quiet for a moment, each man feeling in their hearts the bond they tried to describe with their words.
Dick broke in precisely at the point that the silence was beginning to become a little heavy.
“What’s your plan, Joe?”
“It will be easy, guys. I need your pills,” said Joe quietly.
“We all take too many pills. A bunch of the good stuff would do me in just fine. I would need a lot of them though. Maybe between the four of us we can come up with a wicked cocktail that would knock me out and help me on my way.”
“I have some Oxycodone and some powerful muscle relaxers,” offered Mack. “They were for my back when I hurt it doing squats. I think my wife has some painkillers as well. She got a full prescription following her hysterectomy and didn’t use but a few.”
Kick started by Mack, the group got busy. Millard took down the inventory on a note pad as it developed. It turned out to be quite a list. Old guys raised in a more conservative age don’t throw anything away. And this crowd could apparently pull together a host of old prescriptions that had been squirreled up for possible future use. Their various doctors would have had a stroke if they knew the intended use now.
They joked about it too. Mack cracked that they didn’t need to buy beer anymore with all the junk they had. Then tales of the old days made the rounds again for the umpteenth time. Mack talked about getting high in Vietnam, and the others chimed in with many stories of drunken escapades in the woods. There was one tale about Millard that always came up. Fully loaded and belligerent as hell Millard actually challenged two burly fishermen to a fistfight. In this telling by Joe, Millard kicked butt, although in truth there was no actual combat.
Then Joe reminded the group he wasn’t looking to get stoned. “Remember guys I don’t want to walk around on my knees. I want to be the first one of this band of miscreants to walk around heaven,” he joked. They laughed, stretched, and relaxed a bit.
Then Dick took charge again.
“Millard, can you get a reading on this mix? I have a contact I can feel out but we should have two opinions. You still keep in touch with old Doc Filmore from the prison don’t you? Think you can get a read from him? Just ask him about the stuff in your medicine cabinet. Tell him you have accumulated a surplus of pills and are worried about your neighbor’s kid getting into them. Ask Doc if what you have in the house could hurt him, that sort of thing.”
Millard quickly agreed. This was something he could do. He and Doc went back a long way. He was easy to talk with about most anything. Millard offered to get back to Joe as soon as possible. With that the so-called poker broke up for the night.
Chapter Two
Within a couple of more days Millard had given Joe the word from Doc. He had been clear. He said that a kid could die if he managed to get his hands on different mixtures of the drugs that were common in medicine cabinets. Millard had pushed him farther by mentioning several specific pills that had made the inventory the group had put together. Assuming Millard actually had this stuff, Doc sternly warned him to flush all his old prescriptions down the toilet immediately.
Millard added that Dick’s contact had been direct about the danger of certain pills as well. Thus Joe now knew that he had a plan that would work. He just needed to decide when to get the crew together and just do it.
It only took a week. One morning Joe sat down at the breakfast table to read the newspaper. He reached for his reading glasses where he always kept them and couldn’t find them. As usual he took up a search becoming exasperated with every turn. Finally he just quit, hoping they would show up later.
Then he decided to get some cereal. After pouring cereal and milk into a bowl, he turned in the kitchen to put them away. With the milk in hand he opened the pantry door and discovered his glasses on top of some canned goods. He grabbed his glasses and put the milk on the shelf with the rest of the cereal boxes. Then he took the cereal box and opened the refrigerator door. It was right there and then that he knew the time had come. With the determination that only a man with single-minded purpose could muster, Joe reached for the phone and called Dick.
That afternoon Joe sat down with his wife to tell her of his pending suicide plan. The four friends would be leaving in a few days. She surprised him by a rather cool response. She told him calmly that he could do what he had to do.
Later that evening, Sarah called Dick. She blamed him in part. He had been Joe’s boss, the man that Joe most admired. She felt that Dick could have done more to stop her husband from taking his own life. But she said nothing of this. After some preliminaries, she got to the point.
“Dick, I think you know why I called you. Isn’t there anything more you can do?”
“ Sarah, we all tried. Joe seems to be firmly set on this. We went over every aspect of suicide we could, the religious issues, the impact on those left behind, the total selfishness of the act and the probability that he was moving too fast. But Joe was not influenced by us at all.”
“But Dick, why are you guys helping him? It seems that you are too willing to make it easy for him.”
“I thought about that, Sarah, but Joe really seems to be suicidal right now. I honestly believe he is going to do it one way or the other. We decided that we should stay with him. Maybe something will happen and we can change his mind.”
Sarah was silent for a moment or two. The term “suicidal” had stopped her in her tracks, as the reality of Dick’s choice of the word struck home.
Then with a growing desperation, Sarah began to beg.
“Dick, you have to do better than that. Please Dick. Please do something. Tell me what I can do. Maybe there is something we are not thinking about?”
Dick was the one who fell silent this time. He was physically flushed and very uncomfortable like a man trapped in a blind alley with nowhere to turn.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he whispered.
“I really don’t know what else to say.”
Sarah gave up then. She knew in her heart that Dick and the others had tried to reach Joe, and they would be heavily burdened with the whole affair. She thanked Dick for what they were about to do for him. She closed by sincerely telling Dick that she wanted him to know she was glad he would be there for Joe until the very end.
Sarah sat by the phone for a while. Resigned. That terrible sinking feeling that nothing more could be done to save Joe was familiar to her. She had been down this road before.
It had been gut wrenching for her from the very first time that Joe mentioned suicide. Joe carried wounds from his divorce and serious regrets for not being there for his children. Sarah could never truly let go of her first husband. His untimely death still haunted her, and her love for him endured. At first neither she nor Joe could feel totally comfortable with the ghosts of lost loved ones sharing their home. But, they had now been together for nine years. They were compatible. They had slowly built a good marriage. Sarah had come to assume that they would live out the rest of their lives together. She was devastated at the idea that he could do this and leave her all alone. Again.
Sarah, now 59, was still trim and attractive. She refused to dye her silvery hair and wore it proudly in a fashionable, younger looking cut. She was a retired operating room nurse and had been recognized for exemplary team leadership. Supervising other nurses and staff, she was considered an expert in nursing procedures and even the surgeons turned to her for advice and consultation at various times. But, as intelligent and skilled as she was, she had not been able to get her husband to let go of the idea that his life was no longer worth living, a personal affront to her as a professional care taker and a wife.
Joe had simply told her of his intentions almost like he was telling her he was about to buy a new car. When it hit her that he was actually serious about killing himself, she assumed that she could just talk him out of it. After all it was not rational. They had had several heated discussions over a few weeks with no resolution but she remained convinced that she could find the right words to dissuade him.
And then she hit a wall. They were at it again one evening, and she literally ran out of words. She could simply go no further. She had played every card. She had used up all her ammunition. She was out of options and very much afraid. Joe remained resolute. Her stupid, selfish, thick- headed husband simply sat comfortably in his easy chair swatting away her arguments like so many tiny, and perhaps mildly irritating, garden variety gnats.
It was his demeanor that finally got to her as much as anything else.
“You are not even listening to me, are you, Joe? I might as well be talking to the wall. You have it all figured out. Don’t you? You have all the answers, and I am just wasting my breath. You should see that awful smug look on your face like I am nothing but a bother. You don’t care about me or anyone else at all. It’s all about Mr. Joe, isn’t it?”
“Wait a second, Sarah, that’s just not fair,” Joe managed to squeeze in.
“Fair! Oh, you are really pushing it. You think it is fair to run off and kill yourself. That’s really crap!”
“Joe, it’s me you are talking to. Me! Sarah! I’m lost and confused here. I love you. I want you. Please! Give me something.”
Joe paused for a minute leaving his wife hanging. He fidgeted in his chair.
“Sarah,” he finally said, “I’m sorry but this is something I just must do.”
She lost it then. She boiled over in anger. She literally reached down and snatched him up out of that chair. Then, her face inches from his, she flew into a rage. There was a physical transformation. She could feel her blood pressure rise and her breathing quicken as she tore into him very close to violence.
“Listen to me, you bastard,” she screamed, cursing for the first time since she fell to her knees in anguish a few days after she buried her first husband. Then she had cursed her fate. Now the curses were directed at her current husband, right in his face, as he seemed intent on making her relive it all again.
“You can’t do this! Do you hear me? You can’t just walk away and crawl in a hole like that! I thought I married a MAN! You are nothing but a sniveling coward! A MAN would face it! You make me sick!”
The words came in spurts as she fought for air, suddenly finding her breathing accelerating even more.
Joe stood passively and let her vent. But he made a mistake, lowering his eyes.
“Look at me! Look at me!” She yelled, now super agitated.
“You don’t give a damn for anyone but yourself. Do you? DO YOU? LOOK AT ME!”
As he turned his eyes to meet hers again, she screamed at him, spittle flying from her mouth. She lashed out at him with a long stream of venom, words as sharp as razors, trying furiously to change things, injure him if need be, to make it all go away. On and on she went, rapidly losing control. But Joe held his ground. Unfortunately, not really knowing what to do or say, he managed to do the one thing possible that made the situation even worse. Nothing.
Almost breathless now, eyes wild with desperation, she paused, panting. Waiting. For. Something. Any. Thing. A word. From. Him. He recognized the opening but he had nothing to give. Then she pushed him hard, and he stumbled back, almost falling into his chair. Spinning across the room, she picked up a vase from a hall table and flung it as hard as she could at his head. He ducked at the last second. In an explosion of glass the vase shattered against the wall.
Sarah glared at him and he at her. There was a void between them now, a shockingly large chasm that ran directly through the room. He burned with anger. She cooled. They stood far apart on either side of a very tentative union, both unwilling to reach out anymore. She turned and fled to the bedroom. He flopped back down into his chair.
Later that evening Sarah regained a measure of self-control. In resignation, she remained angry but it was now hidden, brewing in the pit of her acid stomach. She saw in Joe’s steadfast commitment to suicide a selfishness that she never knew he had. Secretly and with a degree of self-loathing, Sarah hardened her heart and vowed not to suffer any longer.
They had reconciled a little. Living together required as much. But both never really reached across the chasm to find a middle ground. There were new ghosts in the house now, ghosts of a mother and an uncle, the walking dead. To Joe there simply was no other option. He honestly wanted to die with his boots on. To Sarah there was nothing she could do. There were no options for her. So she hid her pain and tried as hard as she could to let her husband go, even as he still lived.
On the eve of the day of his departure Sarah found herself facing the moment she had been absolutely dreading for weeks. She was looking at her husband for the very last time. Sarah, wracked with conflicting emotions, fought herself for control.
Her mind raced like a damaged heart in fibrillation. She loved Joe. She did not want to lose him. But, he was freely set to leave her. Why? Alzheimers! So what? What had she done? She loved him. No, hated him. She would be alone. Again. Didn’t she count for something? No! It was obvious. He cared more for himself! Let him go! Who gives a damn any more? I do. But, don’t!
Somehow she pulled herself together long enough for one last kiss.
She held on to him for a while. It seems that neither wanted to let go. It was Joe who first gently eased her out of his arms. Then she straightened, looking directly into his eyes, hoping beyond hope that she would see something other than his grim determination. But it was still there. She looked away, tears welling, and picked up her night bag and walked out the door. As she looked back at him standing on the front porch, she managed a weak smile. Then she climbed into her car. She couldn’t bear to actually watch Joe leave so she drove to her sister’s place to tear herself apart all the more.
Chapter Three
The group had decided to leave the city and get rooms in a casino in Biloxi, Mississippi. They wanted to spend one last day having some fun and then, do it. The fun would mask the real purpose for a while but the ticket for this macabre outing was prescription medicine. Each man secreted his contribution, like a mule carrying cocaine for the cartel. They piled into Mack’s SUV and hit the road.
They gambled, drank too much, and for a while, forgot why they had come. Joe actually went on a winning streak playing a Yellow Devil slot machine. Later he was able to give Dick $300 in cash to give to Sarah at some later date. Both men wondered without comment whether she would accept it or throw it on the ground in disgust.
Dick and Mack played poker and really got into the action. But Millard wasn’t in the mood for cards or companionship for that matter. He just roamed the casino floor. There was more on his mind than games. He couldn’t shake Joe’s pending suicide attempt. So, he killed time watching others play.
Then, a certain bank of $1.00 slot machine caught his eye. The slot machines had a fortuneteller theme, complete with a crystal ball that displayed good luck messages. The ball also rotated and blinked furiously with certain payouts. Millard sat down at one of the machines, put a twenty in the slot and pulled the handle. Three Good Luck symbols rolled into place on the reels. The crystal ball went crazy, flashing like the emergency lights on an ambulance. Millard pocketed an $800 credit slip and left.
Normally, winning that much would have been a thrill for him. But this time there was no excitement. Other gamblers nearby were happy for him. Several congratulated him like he had worked hard on a successful business deal. But he remained locked within himself and hardly noticed. Millard couldn’t shake an ominous feeling of dread.
Walking away from the machine to get his cash, Millard drew a parallel to the situation in which he and the others found themselves. It seemed they were all playing a twisted game. If Joe actually died that night, there could be no winner. They would all lose.
The gambling wound down around midnight. Mack happened to get into the face of a young thug. The punk who had one too many had pushed and challenged him, never realizing that this “Old Man,” was still very much the decorated Marine who could clean his clock in an instant. Mack never lost a fight in the military or in the prison either. He had had plenty of them too. Sensing that Mack might kill the guy, the others whisked him away.
Now, finding themselves out in the main lobby, they decided to call it a night. They had three rooms together on the 18th floor, one to be shared by the ex Marines and one each for Millard and Joe. They were all getting tired and for a moment each man pictured himself washing up and going to bed, all except Joe. He remained purposeful, keenly remembering the reason for the trip.
Joe broke the ice in the elevator. “It’s OK, guys. I want this. Just give me the pills, and I will go to my room and that’s it.”
“Let’s talk a little first,” said Millard, jolted into a reality his mind had tried to allude. “I just want to make sure. I’m in the room right next to you, and I’ll leave you alone when you want, I promise.”
“Yea, Joe. Millard’s right. We can’t just leave you without saying goodbye,” added Dick.
So the four friends retrieved their stash and met back at Joe’s room. They deposited their pills on a small table, got comfortable, and tried to talk. They briefly recalled the good times, and some of the best stories. But it all rang hollow. Joe’s pending suicide attempt hung a pall over his friends, and like the proverbial five hundred pound gorilla, sucked the air out of the room.
Joe sensed it and excused himself to go to the bathroom for a while. When he returned, he stood and said goodbye to each one of his old pals. They stood to face him one by one as he made the rounds.
Dick. Millard. Mack. He offered a few quiet words for each, shook hands, and firmly hugged them. They knew it was time, and they left.
Millard prepared for bed and got out a book he had been reading. Soon, he put down the book and switched off the light. He tossed and turned, trying to sleep but it would not come.
Then, it started.
At first Millard didn’t know what he was hearing. It was a background noise, an air conditioning problem or something. Then he distinctly recognized someone stirring. It sounded like a drunk stumbling past his room in the hall. He focused intently, his hearing zeroing in like radar. Then it hit him. It was the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. Some dumb ass threw up right there in the hall he thought. Then moans, choking, coughing, and more invaded his attempt to sleep.
It was Joe!
Millard jumped out of bed in his briefs, flung open the door, and darted into the hall. He immediately crashed into two blue haired, older women, knocking himself and one of the two gals head over tin cups. He landed right on top of her pinning her to the casino’s signature purple and pink carpet. Both women screamed bloody murder knowing full well they were about to be raped. The one woman who was still on her feet was prepared for just such an attack. She fished into her purse and yanked out a pepper spray canister and blasted Millard in the back of his head before he had time to move. Unfortunately he turned slightly and looked up, thinking for a second that someone was peeing on him. Consequently he got the rest of the contents smack in the kisser. Then, not to be left out, he began screaming too.
Millard managed to roll off his victim but that only served to free her. Since she also got sprayed in the melee, she just started blindly kicking at him. Of course she managed to strike her companion right at the ankle and then all three of the combatants ended up writhing on the floor.
With his face toward the wall, his eyes burning like sin, and kicks and blows raining down on him, Millard had one of those out of body experiences. He left his miserable carcass on the floor and floated up serenely above the pile and observed the struggle below. It looked everything like he and two heavy-set spinsters were in the midst of an orgy, thrashing about partially clothed in the throes of multiple orgasms. Millard just smiled. But, he knew, oh, did he ever know, that he was going to die.
It was Mack who saved him. Still dressed, Mack appeared out of nowhere. He pulled at one of the women trying to free his friend and was immediately whacked on the head with an empty can of pepper spray. Without thinking Mack punched that woman in the mouth, knocking her into the middle of next week. Then he just drug the other down the hall a bit and left her sitting against the wall still screaming like the victim in a chainsaw horror flick.
Just as he leaned down to help Millard off the floor, two young guys dressed in matching orange colored western shirts who had been drawn to the scene by the noise, jumped him from behind. Unfortunately, they had witnessed his knock out punch and now believed they were coming to the aid of damsels in distress. But Mack took exception. So before the two young cowboys knew what hit them, they were both sprawled out on the floor like they had been hit by lightning, which in a way they had.
Mack had a few seconds alone with Millard before a crowd began to gather. He received just enough information from him to understand that Joe was in some kind of distress. Mack whirled, tried the door to Joe’s room, backed off, and with a great guttural cry, hurled himself right threw it. Unfortunately in the confusion he crashed into the wrong room. As he jumped to his feet, he faced a wide-eyed little, old man sitting on the bed with a Colt 357 magnum revolver. Before Mack could say a word, the old man fired directly at him. Bam! Bam! Bam! Fortunately Mack dove at the first shot, the instincts of battle kicking in. He was lucky as that bullet only tore off a piece of his ear. The others went into the ceiling. But one of those struck a sprinkler head. Soon it was raining in the room.
But Mack didn’t want to linger for a bath so he scooted out the door on his knees. There in the hall Mack met a burly security officer, ramming his face directly into the guy’s crotch. This guy, having no sense of humor at this point, finally put an end to the whole mess by giving Mack a nice knee to the chin, sending him clueless to rest for a while on that pink and purple carpet.
Dick, who had been in the shower, arrived shortly thereafter to take charge, wearing only a towel. He was so forceful in his demands and orders that the security crew on the scene actually jumped to attention in the midst of cuffing Mack as he lay moaning on the floor. But, one of them, a huge man wearing a shirt two sizes too small, didn’t recognize Dick as his leader for some reason. He got perturbed and promptly told Dick to shut up. Offended and ready to knock heads himself, Dick took a step toward the Orson Wells look-alike. But he managed to think clearly for a moment. Biting his lip, he backed off and avoided a confrontation.
As soon as Mack cleared his head, he shouted to Dick to check on Joe. Of course Dick had to ask the same security personnel to help him get into Joe’s room. He immediately started making demands again this time with even more urgency. Up to their eyeballs in noise and confusion, the hotel cops had had enough so they literally dropped what they were doing and grabbed Dick. Unfortunately what they were doing was yanking Mack, all trussed up in cuffs, off the floor. Wham, down he went right on his face.
Dick got himself cuffed and thrown down near Mack with orders to sit still and be quiet, or else. But both men ignored the warnings and tried to make the security boys understand that a friend of theirs was in serious trouble, this while the two blue hairs went on and on about being raped. Just when Dick and Mack had exhausted the patience of the security staff, the boys in blue showed up in force. Thinking they had a better chance to tell their story to professional police officers, Dick and Mack became even more agitated and animated and loudly directed their concerns to the newcomers.
One nod from a no nonsense police sergeant was all it took. Both men ended up being dragged by their cuffs to an elevator, down through the lobby and out to a paddy wagon. Somehow Dick lost his towel in the elevator. A crowd immediately gathered to watch the spectacle. Dick, noticing the attention he was getting, squared his shoulders, sucked in his gut and proudly allowed himself to be led away. He even managed broad smiles for the ladies who were very interested in his striking countenance.
In the wagon, Dick and Mack relaxed. They recalled several times they had been in a tight spot during the war and this fiasco was nothing. So there they sat quietly discussing the events of the evening and worrying about their friend Joe.
Back on the 18th floor of the hotel, the cops tried to make sense of the situation. Now there were at least thirty or forty people milling around, including a busload of elderly Evangelical Christians. Others included three casino big wigs, three or four security guys, and a hapless handyman trying to do something about the water now soaking the hall floor. None of them could tell the cops what really happened. But, the police learned enough to pin point most of the principals. They identified the fat man, Millard, lying on the floor against the wall moaning, as a victim. He was dressed only in a pair of overly stretched briefs, had numerous scratches and bruises on his body, and certainly looked the part. According to witnesses, Mack had been the one who beat him.
That left the two want-a-be cowboys slowly recovering from what they described as an ass kicking by a trained assailant, the two unlikely rape victims, and the little old man who had been shooting up the place with a gun bigger than he was. They assumed the cowboys were lying, because men in matching orange western shirts always did. And it was obvious the old man was nuts. They had to the pry that gun out of his hands and when they managed to do it, he bawled like a baby. In addition they just couldn’t believe two women in their late seventies could attract a rapist. Besides, both old gals were obese and ugly as sin. So they were about to run the entire group into the police station for questioning when a pair of EMTs showed up looking for a shooting victim. Seeing Millard still on the floor, they busied themselves checking him out.
The cops then decided to stuff all the rest in the paddy wagon with Dick and Mack and take the whole crowd to headquarters for statements. They left Millard with his caregivers and asked the techs to hold him and give them a call if and when he was medically cleared.
After stopping the vehicle twice to pry the un-cuffed little old ladies off of Mack, they shackled them and chained their feet to the floor of the van. Then, despite endless threats and cussing from the two women, the cops finally arrived at the jail-house.
Mack assumed he and Dick would be thrown under it.
Millard was not in as bad shape as he looked. He assumed he would be checked out and allowed to go back to his room to await the police. But, he was shocked when they said they were taking him to the hospital for evaluation because his vital signs were not good. They explained that they were concerned that he may have suffered a heart attack.
Millard was stunned. Yet, he had not forgotten his old friend. As they prepared to leave, he asked them to awaken his friend in the room next door so he could get some clothes for him. As one tech packed up the medical gear, the other knocked on Joe’s door.
Joe actually answered their knocks. With great effort and concentration, he undid the chain and pushed open the door. Then he fainted, right into the arms of the medical tech. This trained professional who had seen it all nearly freaked out. The man he had caught and helped to the floor was a total mess physically and other wise. He made the tech recall Johnny Cash’s old hit, A Boy Named Sue. Joe looked like he had been rolling around in the mud and the blood and the beer. Within a heartbeat both Joe and Millard were on their way to the hospital.
Millard arrived first and was reexamined. The vital signs had improved so he was rolled aside for observation and some tests. When Joe was wheeled in soon thereafter, the emergency room physician quickly decided to pump out his stomach. Millard was on a gurney next to Joe. He couldn’t see him because of a privacy curtain. But, he could hear and imagine.
Joe had been covered with vomit when they found him. Now Millard knew he was covered with fresh stuff. Millard heard the decidedly unmelodic sounds of gagging and barfing. He could picture the nose tube being forced down Joe’s throat. The gag reflex kicked in and Joe gagged almost continuously. When Millard recognized the sound of suction as they emptied Joe’s stomach, he began to gag himself. Soon he wore the stinking mess of his supper all over himself, just like Joe.
As he recovered, it became quiet in the area next to him. Suddenly a curtain was drawn and Millard got a glimpse of Joe spread- eagled on his gurney. His face was a God-awful mask of colorless grey! They were wheeling him away. Millard assumed his friend was dead. In all honesty, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.