Vanderville: Sometimes Going Home Can Be Murder

PROLOGUE

Alice Faye McCoy, 78 years old and dying of liver cancer, laid curled on her side between cool hospital sheets. She had warmed the small space she occupied on the hard mattress and was reluctant to move lest she touch a cold spot. She and the other nursing home patients complained endlessly about the coldness of the place, but their whines fell harmlessly on young, warm-blooded ears.

She felt more than actually saw, the door ease open, allowing a thin blade of light to slash the darkness. It split the room in half, edged toward her bed, then stabbed cruelly at her eyes. Her tissue paper eyelids were helpless against the onslaught. She squeezed her eyes hard shut. No use.

Her sleepy cocoon had been invaded. Probably that damn fat Cora Mae she thought. Doin’ another bed check. No sound. If I don’t say nothin’ maybe she’ll just go away. Still no sound. Curiosity, or perhaps some ancient sense of self-preservation, insisted that she crack one eye open for a peek. No, not Cora Mae. Her heart began to pound.

Her voice crackled to life. What are you doin’ here at this hour?

The visitor snatched the pillow roughly from beneath her head and pressed it hard against her face. For one strange moment, her long gone sense of smell returned, flooding her with the fresh soapy scent of the pillowcase. Then nothing.

Cora Mae Baskins, the third shift nurse, should have heard Alice McCoy’s losing battle with death, but instead she sat slack-jawed and staring at the flickering images on a small television set wedged between the file racks at the nurse’s station. The rattling of ice in her jumbo Coke and the rustle of paper being torn from a Milky Way bar were more than enough camouflage. Channel 46 was celebrating spring with a series of slasher movies. Cora Mae loved movies like that. The gorier the better.

Skinny bitches, she told the screen. Y’all deserve to be chopped up.

Earlier that afternoon, Miss Alice had pushed away her lunch tray, empty except for the khaki colored pudding, now lumpy and covered with a thick skin, when old Doc Mayfield stuck his head in the door.

Good afternoon, Alice. Got a minute to talk?

Are you kiddin’, Doc? I ain’t got nothin’ but time. Come on in and make yourself to home. She straightened the bed covers and vainly smoothed a clump of wispy gray hair back behind her ear. He pulled the room’s only chair up closer to her bed.

In the slow, easygoing way he was loved for, Doc Mayfield took Alice’s bony hand and gently caressed it between his own.

He spoke soothingly. Alice, we need to talk about your future. The tumor in your liver is not responding to the chemotherapy. It is my belief that we should stop the treatment. It seems to drag you down. Of course, the decision is yours. Yours and anyone else you choose to consult with. I will help you fight as long as you have it in you. Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes. I promise you that we will keep you as comfortable as we can, Alice. We will not let you suffer any. You can rest assured on that. Do you have any affairs that you need to get in order, my dear?

Alice swallowed around the lump in her throat.

No, Doc, I ain’t got much in the way of affairs, just the house is all. That’s all took care of in my will, Travis gettin’ it. Not that he’ll ever come back and live in it, but he can sell it and maybe get enough to take care of Missy.

She used her free hand to rub at her eyes, still a clear and bright blue, in spite of age and illness. She felt every one of her sixty-six years weighing down on her. She begged Doc to leave her for a while so she could take a nap, even though she felt certain that he had more to say. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to hear it now.

Sure, Alice, I know this is a bitter pill to swallow. He hesitated, then asked, Have you had any contact with Travis? His eyebrows knit together, forming a long gray caterpillar.

No, not directly I ain’t, but I did send him a letter a while back. I been knowin’ this conversation was coming. Them nurses tell us more than they’re supposed to. Plus that little Junior Phoss been sniffing around. It don’t take no genius to figure out things ain’t lookin’ good when the funeral director suddenly gets interested in your health. She laughed, but there was no joy in it. Don’t worry, Doc. I won’t leave you to be makin’ arrangements. Me and Junior will work things out ‘tween us. She closed her eyes and dozed off, dismissing him.

Awake

I am strong,

Hard in all things.

Asleep

I am at the mercy of my Self.

The Traveller

1

The dream came again, bearing down out of the black Miami night, blasting sleep away. Even the thin cotton sheet, now damp with sweat, felt heavy and tight, too tight. Traveller kicked it off, turned over, and threw his long tanned leg over Carlita’s even darker ones, trying desperately to slow breathe his way back to sleep.

The dark tunnel was wide and inviting. A halo of light around the edges of the entrance beckoned him, and he felt irresistibly drawn into it, toward the warmth of the bright light. Every step farther into the tunnel seemed to dim the light, as if his steps were tapping light switches to the ‘off’ position. For some unknown reason, he could not turn around and he could not step back. He could only go forward, snapping off lights. The tunnel began to narrow as the lights dimmed, and the air felt thick and heavy. It was hard to breathe. Just before total blackness, he would awaken, gasping for air, sweating, panic stricken. He could no longer remember what it was like not to have the dream; it had become a part of him, but he longed to be rid of it.

One cold dark morning, trying to shake off the dream, he had remembered the school nurse telling him that he would outgrow it, but he never had. And he had never mentioned it to anyone else after seeing the look of concern in her eyes. He couldn’t risk anyone talking to his mother, and he sure as hell couldn’t tell anyone the birthplace of the dream. Maybe he didn’t know for sure himself.

This night even the gentle rocking of the custom designed 62’ Hatteras yacht failed to help recapture sleep. He surrendered, again, to the dream and slipped quietly out of the bunk. Damn it! The dream always wins.

Even though he preferred to swim nude, enjoying the caress of the warm black water, he pulled on an old pair of blue cutoffs. Don’t wanna shock anybody here in Ritzy Bay, he muttered, then climbed the carpeted stairs to the salon deck, walked to the bow, and dove softly overboard. His porpoise-like dive barely made a ripple in the glassy slice of sea called Biscayne Bay. As always, the water washed away the night sweats, drowned the dream, and with each stroke his breathing became more normal.

After exhausting himself swimming laps around the anchored yacht, Traveller heaved himself back aboard and onto the rear diving platform, preferring to give his arms one final challenge rather than using the ladder. As he stood dripping seawater onto the teak deck, he watched in awe as the sun cracked the horizon in a blaze of pink. Already the deck felt warm beneath his bare feet, and he was tempted to lie down so that he could feel that hard warmness the length of his body. The old saying, ‘red sky in the morning, sailors take warning' came to mind, and instead duty pushed him to the cockpit to check for ominous weather teletypes. Nothing but the usual afternoon thunderstorms were being forecast. His belly said something was up. As an old restlessness began to take hold of him, he tossed the Teletype in the trash, pulled off his shorts, and stepped back down into the open hatchway. It was time to make some decisions.

He stood looking down on the sleeping figure, stretched cat-like, her brown curls nearly covering the pillow. Carlita, wake up.

She stretched and rolled to face him. Si, Chico. Why are you up so early? Come back to bed.

Sounds tempting, Carlita, but I’m heading into town for a while. I got some thinking to do. How ‘bout you be gone when I get back?

Sure, Honey, but let me clean up a leetle before I go. What time do you want me back? I was hoping we could talk today about getting our own place, you know? She dropped her legs over the side of the bed and reached for a hairbrush.

Traveller watched appreciatively as she brushed her thick mane of hair. It danced above her round bottom, tickling the small of her back, and it took some effort for him to resist touching her. Their eyes met in the mirror as he stood behind her.

Water dripped onto his shoulders from still wet hair and his own countenance looked back at him over her shoulder. He shook and water sprayed over Carlita, making her shiver with pleasure.

While she watched in confused silence, he pulled on a pair of white shorts and a Miami Heat tee shirt, pulled his wet hair back into a ponytail with a piece of leather, and made a quick getaway in the little motorized skiff used for getting to shore when the yacht was anchored out in a harbor. He never gave a thought to how Carlita would make it to shore. He knew she’d find a way, 'cause she was smart. He never messed with dumb women. At least, not for longer than it took to satisfy himself.

Carlita wasn’t so sure, and stood in the plush salon and watched him expertly maneuver the tiny boat away from her. She was suddenly cold as if he had taken the sun with him, and tears of hurt burned the edges of her brown eyes. She had been with Traveller long enough to know that he meant what he said, but not long enough to have read the book of his soul. It was as though it were yet another foreign language to master. She knew he was strong, powerful, and independent. She had seen him reduce tough men to tears. And yet she sensed some inner torture, something he would not share with her. Something that made him wake up in the night, sweating and angry.

Aye, Dios mio, she thought. He is so damn gorgeous and I thought he was gonna be mine. I should have known it was too fucking good to be true. She swallowed hard and began trying to figure a way to shore. Was there a water taxi she could call?

She shook her fist into the air, toward the distant shoreline, and screamed, Damn your selfish ass, Traveller!

Anger was just the right antidote for her sadness, and she felt better for having yelled, but all she got for her trouble was the answering screech of a seagull.

2

Traveller stood in the long line at the General Delivery window of the Crandon Park post office. His eyes scanned restlessly over the heads of the crowd, mostly retired senior citizens, and short stocky Latinos. They made him acutely aware of his lanky six and a half foot build.

He had overheard himself described once as ‘lookin’ like he was flung up tall and straight like a Georgia pine.’

The disdain Traveller felt for those who scurried about beneath him simmered well below the surface of his dark, scarred exterior. He had learned that his smile seemed to unnerve people, so he just went about his business and let the chips fall where they may.

Unlike many very tall people who slouched apologetically to minimize their height, he had always considered his height and size an advantage, particularly since the night an Old Portuguese ship captain taught him a cruel lesson in self-defense. He had been a naive seventeen years old then, and too trusting.

Waiting in line was irritating and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing a finger up and down the jagged scar along his jawbone. He called the scar his memorial to the innocence of youth. A new line opened up eventually and nearly everyone moved over, leaving him next to be served.

The clerk handed him his meager stack of mail, which consisted of a few banking receipts, several pieces of junk mail addressed to ‘occupant’, and one first class letter which bore the unmistakable old style penmanship of his mother. It was addressed to:

Mr. Travis Sean McCoy

c/o General Delivery

Crandon Park Post Office

Key Biscayne, Florida

The zip code was missing and with the number of postal stamps all over the envelope he wondered how it ever got to him. Christ, he muttered. I wonder what the hell she wants with me after all this time. I hope it’s not about Missy. Unconsciously, he rubbed at the scar again, and headed outside into the glare of the south Florida sunshine.

The post office loomed in faded art deco splendor next door to a more modern outdoor cafe called Palmettos, with redwood tables beneath a canopy of sea grape trees. Sitting slouched in a slatted redwood chair, he ordered black coffee and a garlic bagel from the young Cuban waiter. He purposely postponed opening the letter until his coffee had arrived and he had scalded his throat with several quick gulps. Here goes nothin’, he thought, as he ripped into the envelope.

Dear Son,

I hope this letter finds you. I know you move around a lot and this is the only address I had for you. I’m glad you finally saw fit to send me a card. At least that’s something.

I know you don’t believe it, but I hope you are okay. We have had our differences in the past, but you are still my son and I love you. The nurses here at the home tell me my time is short. They won’t say exactly how short, but I would love to see you before I pass on.

You are all I got, since we cannot count poor Missy. The last time I visited her she didn’t know me. That is enough to break a mother’s heart, for sure.

If this letter reaches you in time, please come and see me. I’m in the Franklin County Nursing Home, Room 108.

Your loving mother.

Bile surged in his throat. She was so self-serving and pious! He took two more sips of coffee and snapped his fingers at the waiter for a refill. The letter and the reference to his beloved sister Missy, now also in a home in Georgia, were hard to take. He had come to terms with the fact that Loving Arms, a residential care facility for the mentally handicapped, was the best place for her, but the guilt over her condition sat like a rock in his heart. It never left him.

Well, he thought, I guess it’s time to hit the road again. Been in one place way too damn long anyhow. This shit with Carlita proves that. I reckon she thought we were gonna settle down and live happily ever after in our own little casa. Boy, was she wrong!

When he finished his breakfast, he stuck the letter in his shorts pocket, paid the check, left a generous tip, and walked back to the yacht to pack. He was paid handsomely by the Greek importer to stay on board and keep the boat secure, so he would have to give Crew Services, Inc. a call and schedule a replacement for himself. He knew it would be someone of lesser abilities, but hell, nobody was a good with a boat as he was.

Once that was taken care of, he changed into his hiking clothes and shoes, and packed his gear. Carlita had left the place immaculate. The only thing she had left behind was her musky scent and the faint odor of sex. He figured that oughta drive his replacement nuts!

After securing the boat, leaving the keys in the marina lock-box, and tying the little dinghy to the pier, he headed across the Rickenbacker Causeway toward old U.S. Highway 1. That put him at the mouth of Interstate 95, where it begins its journey north, paralleling Highway 1.

He intended to close the door to his past once and for all.

3

Shirley Vickery was the early shift nurse at Franklin County Nursing Home, and she was due in at seven sharp. She tried hard to be on time, but rarely made it. She was the single mother of three girls, all under the age of eight, and they never gave her a break in the morning. There was always some catastrophe, from lost shoes to last minute diaper changes, and her car keys seemed to have a life of their own. They were never where she was positive she had left them.

The night shift nurses constantly complained about Shirley coming in late to relieve them, but that morning nobody complained. Cora Mae Baskins was sound asleep at the nurse’s station, her round melon head resting on her sofa sized arms. At first, Shirley thought no one was even on duty, she couldn’t see Cora Mae, who had slumped over behind the high counter. Then she heard the snores.

Damn it, Cora Mae, wake up before somebody see you! She had to actually grab a handful of Cora Mae’s soft shoulder and shake it, hard, to get a response.

Oh, it’s you, Shirley. Good morning. Guess I must’ve dozed off, she whined, wiping the drool from the side of her mouth with the back of her hand. Don’t worry, everybody’s fine. I just checked.

That lie would come back to haunt her, but right now it sounded good. Plus, it eased Shirley’s mind. Shirley was the only black nurse at the home and the last thing she needed was a problem.

You sure everybody’s okay, Cora Mae? That bitch Rosenthal be here later to make rounds. I don’t want no trouble with her. She don’t like me no way.

I swear, Shirley, I ain’t heard a peep outa nobody all night. I passed out meds about midnight and it’s been quiet as a tomb ever since.

Before Shirley could question her any more, Cora Mae grabbed her huge plastic Dollar Store purse and waddled out the back exit door, trailing an odor of grease behind her, as usual. "She smell like a damn Burger King, fo’ sho’, muttered Shirley, looking up from her charts just in time to see the door shush, then click shut. It barely missed Cora Mae’s wide bottom.

She stared at the closed door; something prickling her mind, something not right, but it wouldn’t come clear. She shook her beaded cornrows in exasperation with herself, and decided she had no time to worry over that now. She punched in the exit door alarm code reset numbers, and went about preparing to make her room checks. She grabbed an armful of charts and a cup of coffee and began the day.

There were eight rooms in her wing, four on each side of the hallway, and a nurses station