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Down in the Dirt v059

this writing is in the collection book
Decrepit Remains
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Decrepit Remains, the 2008 Down in the Dirt collection book
Evergreen Inn

Chris Vincent

    The trip from the City was uneventful. The weather was lousy, October rainy. I was on my way to the high country to forget about this week, this year—no Toto, this isn’t Kansas anymore, this isn’t anything anymore. Burying somebody you love can take a lot out of a man and I was fairly dead.
    We were married nine years ago, just as the bombs were dropping like confetti over Pearl Harbor. Long enough to appreciate the difference between bean counters and bean lovers. Sallie was one of those country gals who looked anything but. Fashionable blonde, great legs and heels, heels, heels. She was a knock-out and I adored her. Not just because of looks, certainly. And certainly not because I felt sorry for her (MS confined her to a wheel chair the final eighteen months), but because she was so damn original. Not an ounce of pretense. Just the opposite of me.
    I rolled into Evergreen just before dark. My idea was to check in and drink misery to death—or enough to pass out and start over the next day. I didn’t want to see or talk to anybody. Family and well-wishers were miles away and I had every intention of keeping it that way.
    The inn was tucked amid a stand of (you guessed it) evergreen trees. You had to slow down and look for it as you passed Old Creek Road. Sal had mentioned the place a few times over the years, but somehow I kept coming up with lame excuses not to go. (Too touchy-feely if you know what I mean). But then after the funeral I thought, what the hell. Sal would be pleased.
    As I trudged up to the door I noticed the parking lot was empty. Except for a rusty bike lying against the porch, it appeared the place would be mine.
    I knocked, glanced through a side window. Well, well. A nice log fire to greet the weary traveler. The door unlocked—then creaked open.
    “Come in, come in. My, you’ll catch your death,” a warm and cheery voice called from where, the kitchen?
    My rain soaked feet strayed inside. I looked around, heard a faint ticking of a clock—the kind that says this place ain’t so bad after all. The room was cozy and filled with cheery light like one of those Peter Thatcher paintings. I set my overnight bag down and called out. “Hello?”
    The friendly voice materialized from around the corner. “Well, helloooo. You must be Mr. Jerome,” she sang. “I’m Penny Goodpaster. How do you do?”
    Now this was a bit of a surprise. Granny looked like one of those old English nannies right out of a Dickens novel. Plumpish frame, white hair, specs, the whole package. But she was gracious, I’ll give you that.
    “You may call me Miss Goodpaster,” she said sweetly. “What shall I call you?”
    I moved forward and held out my hand. “Call me Jim,” I said and smiled.
    “Jimmy Jerome. I like that,” she said in a curious accent I could not place. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you to your room. Then we can sit down to a lovely dinner. I’ve got a nice chicken pot pie in the oven—”
    “I really wasn’t planning on eating,” I said apologetically. “Truth is, ma’am, I’m beat from the drive and just want a good night’s rest if that’s okay with you.” Liar, you just want a good night’s worth of the old Jim Beam, that’s what you want, Jimmy boy!
    “Oh, gracious, of course. You must be wearied to no end.”
    She doddered to the window, drew back a lace curtain. “It looks so miserable outside.” Then turning directly to me. “Is it miserable outside, Jimmy Jerome?”
    What an odd question. Of course it was miserable. It was damn nasty—42 degrees and raining. Anybody could see that. But the way she addressed me, as if she was asking me if I were miserable. How could she know?
    “Yes, it’s very unpleasant,” I said.
    “Well then, after you unpack, how about a nice glass of sherry to get you in the perfect mood for bed? I’ll throw on another log.”
    She looked so eager for companionship, how could I object. “Sure,” I said. “Are you expecting any more guests this evening?”
    “No,” she said. “Is there a problem?”
    “No problem at all,” I said.
    She blinked her particularly clear blue eyes, nodded. “Follow me then, Jimmy Jerome.”

***


    The room was small but cozy. Bear country chic. Brass double bed, knotty pine dresser, mirror and a round window overlooking Mill Street. Across the hall, the privy.
    I quickly unpacked my things and bottle of Mr. Beam. On top of the dresser were two glasses. I selected one and poured. The delicious scent of malted corn lifted my spirits at once. Here’s to Sallie, I thought. To Sallie and Jim, the greatest damn couple who ever lived. I slowly brought the glass to my lips, swallowed. Re-loaded and drank again. Anything to forget the last few days and everything else in my miserable life before I met her.

***


    Sallie Ferguson. I hadn’t really known her as anyone more than that new girl from Chattanooga, who talked funny. Both of us worked at Barney’s Bail, a two-bit bond dealer along the river. Truth be told, we were nothing but a small time outfit changing money for the big boys up north.
    Anyway, one night after a particularly sweltering day, a bunch of us mush heads headed over to a little place on West Broadway. Shanghai Sam’s, I think it was, a Chinese-ee little dive just this side of the tunnel. I thought about the subway but decided to walk. The air was spongy wet, every inch of my shirt soaked with sweat. Taking the subway would be like taking a steam bath. No thanks, Charlie, I think I’ll pass.
    As I approached the joint some saggy-faced old lady asked me for my umbrella. I looked up at the sky and thought what the hell as the first drops of rain plopped onto her dirty, fat forehead. Guess I could afford another two-bits.
    Inside was cool bliss, thanks to the rickety bamboo fans that wobbled freely overhead. I bee-lined it to the men’s room to wash up and splash on a little bay rum before ordering my first cut of bourbon.
    Two hours later I was pretty tight, when some slender cutie slid up beside me and started saying profundities like I like your tie and you smell good. I remember thinking I had better ditch this dame quick or regret it big time the next morning, when somebody yanked the back of my shirt (no longer sticking to my skin) and drilled me with the greenest eyes this side of summer. It was Sallie.
    Right then and there, I knew there was something special about her unlike all the other dames I ever dated. I made up my mind I was going to win her. The question was how?
    Long story short, it was Sal who provided the answer. She told me I had better straighten up if she was going to let somebody like the likes of me walk her home. Amused, I asked her how she could be so sure I wanted to take that stroll. That’s when she nailed me. Good. She told me even though I was a slicked up popinjay who drank too much, I was a gentleman. And gentleman prefer ladies of which she was one. I told her I bought the lady part, but come on, me a gentleman? That’s when she asked me for my umbrella. Sal knew, she wanted me, too.

***


    I repaired downstairs to find Granny rocking in front of the radio, drinking a hearty glass of Warre’s Sherry—the pricey kind. The fire was blazing.
    “There you are,” she said. “I took the liberty of pouring you a pinch in the kitchen. Why don’t you grab the bottle and sit right here,” she said pointing to a sofa chair opposite the fire.
    After returning from the kitchen and settling into my chair, sherry in hand, I sat back and sipped. Not exactly my cup of tea but the stuff wasn’t bad. “This is very nice,” I said.
    “Tell me, Jimmy. Tell me why you did it?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “We both know why you’re here, but you need to admit it, come clean with yourself, as it were.” She smiled serenely.
    This old broad has gone cracker-jack, I thought. I set my glass down.
    “Lady—”
    “Miss Goodpaster,” she corrected.
    “Miss Goodpaster, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “Oh, but you do,” she said.
    I got up and walked to the window. Damn, it was black outside. I couldn’t see a thing.
    “You killed her, didn’t you?” she said, as if asking me for another glass of wine.
    “What the hell—killed who?”
    “Why your wife, Jimmy Jerome. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
    I returned to my chair. Gulped the rest of the sherry down. “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard of, ” I said.
    “At least you might have been a little more gentle. Throwing her down the basement stairs—in her wheelchair no less—was thoughtless and cruel, even by your standards.”
    I abruptly stood up. “That’s enough,” I said. “I’m getting the hell out of here. You’re crazy as a loon, lady. Hear me? Crazy as a puss on a hot tin roof.”
    I ran upstairs to get my things. Except the head of the stairs was blocked. More like sealed. No hallway. Just a wall, flat, plastered. What the hell’s this, I thought.
    I raced back down and toward the front door. I yanked at the brass knob but it wouldn’t open. Yanked again but not even a budge. Outside I could still see it was black—black as pitch. I began to laugh.
    “You’re not going anywhere tonight, Jimmy Jerome,” Granny informed me. “Why don’t you sit down and have another glass of sherry.”
    I picked up the bottle and took a slug. Still laughing, I drank again, wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt.
    “This is just dream, isn’t it? Keep calm, Jimmy boy, you’ll wake up in a sec,” I said out loud. I caught my breath, took in the surroundings again. Fire blazing. Granny smiling. Clock ticking. “Just a bad dream.”

***


    I woke up just before dawn. Sal was still asleep next to me—a crease mark across her one cheek. I crept out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
    When I entered the kitchen a few minutes later, I was surprised to see Sal’s wheelchair by the kitchen table, a few feet away from the basement door. She usually kept it beside her bed in case she wanted to get up in the middle of the night. I bent down to inspect it. Reinforced hard rubber tubing, steel rims and a wooden seat, cushioned with a worn corduroy pillow now fairly frayed from months of use.
    I despised it. Hated the very sight of it. Clunky, ugly, despicable thing. What it was doing to my Sal just wasn’t right.
    I stood up and grabbed the back handles, moved it away from the table. Then I made breakfast.
    Twenty minutes later, I heard Sal calling. I put down the paper, finished my coffee and got up from the table. I stretched and yawned, eyeballed the basement door, then rolled Sal’s wheelchair out of the kitchen and down the hallway.



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