The Creeping Dead: A Zombie Novel (18 page)

“I see you like to keep things neat,” remarked Tara.

Lenny nodded.

“So, do you have a job at the motel?”

“I make beds and bring extra towels.”

“Really? That’s great. Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s a very important job. I’m a professional.”

Lenny’s speech was a bit garbled, but having worked with preschoolers, some with special needs, Tara was used to it.

“So, I see you have a cape. Are you are superhero?”

“I’m Magma Man.”

“Oh, I see. You mean you’re dressed like Magma Man.”

Lenny wrestled with this slight correction, but he wanted to be polite. He swallowed hard before speaking. “I wish I was Magma Man.”

“Why’s that, Lenny?”

“He’s special. He has powers. He’s a hero, and people like him.”

“Well, Lenny Krueger seems to be pretty popular around here. Maybe even more than Magma Man.”

While Lenny smiled at the first part, he frowned at the second. “Oh, no. Magma Man is more important. He’s a hero.”

“Oh, I see.” Tara remembered that Jeff told her that superheroes were Lenny’s ‘religion.’ His mother was not a religious woman, and he was not raised with religion, so superheroes filled the gap.

“My favorite is Ultra Girl. I think she’s cool.”

The smile returned to Lenny’s face. “She’s very special. Her and Magma Man.”

“So, who gave you the cape?”

“Billy Blake.”

“Who’s that? A Friend of yours?”

Lenny nodded. “A special friend. He works at the store we passed down the boardwalk. He’s a nice man.”

There was that qualifier again. ‘Special.’

“I have a son who likes superheroes. I think Magma Man is his favorite, too.”

Lenny sat up straight, as if she had just imparted a surprising piece of information. “Really? What’s his name?”

“Tyrell. He’s five years old.”

“Wow. That’s great. Does he read Magma Man comic books?”

“Not yet. He’s a little too young for comic books, but he reads very well for a kid his age. One day he’ll get into comics.”

Hector came over with the four slices. Lenny chittered with delight. Tara probably figured he must’ve had Marco’s pizza a hundred times before, yet he appreciated each time as if it was the first. In fact, as they chatted over their pizza, she noticed that Lenny seemed to treat everything as if it was new and special.

It was an admirable quality. Like that old man at the carousel had. She felt more optimistic about the move to Smuggler’s Bay, the new job, and was eager to wipe the slate clean.

After some small talk, it was time to broach a meatier topic. “Lenny, your mom seems very nice. You’re very lucky to have her.”

Lenny’s expression suddenly became grave. “She likes to boss me around. I don’t like that.”

Tara knew she’d get this reaction. Jeff had filled her in about this evolving dynamic between Lenny and Alice. As Lenny matured and became more independent, he began to resent his mother. Jeff said this was common with those with Down Syndrome as they grew up.

The unfortunate reality was that, even for the highest functioning ones, they’d never be completely independent, and they knew it. While they knew and appreciated all that their parents did for them, it also became an ugly reminder of their limitations and frequently soured relationships with their parents.

“She only cares about you, is all,” said Tara. “My mother still worries about me.” Tara’s mind drifted to a desperate conversation her mother had with her in the throes of post-partum depression…

“Tara, honey,” she reached across the kitchen table and held her daughter’s hand, “Marcus tells me you’ve been having a hard time.”

Tara yanked her hand away from her mother’s. “Well, I think Marcus should mind his fucking business.” So this is why Marcus disappeared with the baby.

Her mother winced at the cursing. Tara wasn’t normally one to curse. She hadn’t raised Tara that way. “Honey, it’s okay. Sometimes pregnancy messes with a woman’s chemistry. Maybe you’d feel better if you saw a doctor, got some medication that would even you out.”

Tara stood up and backed away from the kitchen table, her expression that of sour resentment. She turned and faced the cabinets, staring at nothing. “So you, too. You think that I’m crazy, too.”

Her mother stood and walked around the table to stand behind her. She placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Tara, no one’s using that word.”

Tara whirled around, her mother’s hand thrust off her shoulder.

Startled, her mother took a few steps back until she backed into the table.

Tara advanced upon her mother. “No one’s using that word, but that’s exactly what they mean, isn’t it?”

“We just want you to be all right. Tyrell needs you. Marcus needs you.”

“What about what I need?”

“We’ll get you whatever you need. Just say the word. What do you need?”

“I need Marcus to stop fucking around with other women.”

“Tara, you know he’s not doing that. He’s a good man. He’s the father of your child.”

“Where do you think he is right now? What do you think he’s doing at this very moment?” Tara accused more than asked.

“Tara, he’s with your father and the baby.”

“He dropped the baby off and is rolling around with one of his whores.”

“Tara, you need to stop it, this instant! Do you hear yourself?”

“Maybe he’s fucking you too, Ma.”

Tara’s mother slapped her so hard she left a red handprint on her daughter’s face. Tara was speechless. Her mother slapped her again.

“Mama, what are you doing?”

“You wanna talk like some gutter trash, I’ll treat you like gutter trash,” said her mother. “You’re going to get some help, or so help me God…

…Tara remembered the resentment she had toward her mother that day. She remembered how she had hurt her mother. Her family. She was ashamed that her mother had apologized for slapping her, but she still couldn’t bring herself to apologize for the way she spoke to her mother.

“There’s no shame in needing help, Lenny. My mother helped me when I needed it, and I was mean to her.”

Lenny looked at her quizzically. “You’re not a mean person.”

“And neither are you,” said Tara. “But sometimes we can act mean when someone’s trying to help us.”

“Well, you can help me, Tara. I’ll never be mean to you.”

Tara smiled. “I appreciate that, Lenny. But we need to work on you appreciating your mom.”

Lenny nodded. First blood had been drawn, therapeutically-speaking, and it was okay. They ate the rest of their meal in a comfortable silence.

* * *

Holbrook stood next to Lena as they watched Robbie in line for the swinging chairs. Robbie looked over his shoulder and smiled at his parents. A year ago he would’ve waved and called out their names. He was getting older, and soon they’d be lucky if they received a nod of acknowledgement.

Holbrook loved and hated his job. He loved Smuggler’s Bay, and he loved that he played a real part in preserving its charm through law and order. However, being Chief was demanding and frequently took him away from Robbie. From Lena.

He thought of Billy Blake, and his blood turned to ice. Holbrook would never let his job come between him and his family again. He was there more. He made sure of it. Although his job was to protect and serve, he’d protect his family first, and at all costs.

Lena took his hand in hers. “Remember when he used to go on the little boats and the Merry-Go-Round? Now he’s going on the swinging chairs.”

“Next’ll be the Albatross and the other coasters.”

Lena shivered at the thought. She wasn’t much for fast rides. “Do you think we can still get him to go to Circus Faire?”

“Ugh. Those damned clowns.”

Lena looked up at her husband, amused. “Why do you hate those clowns so damned much?”

Holbrook kissed her on the forehead. “Because you don’t know them like I do. They breeze into town for the parade, get drunk, trash their motel rooms, and steal anything that isn’t nailed down.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s a small minority.”

“Alice Krueger at the Ocean’s Gate had to redo the carpeting and replace the bedding in several of her rooms. Those clowns are animals. Last year there were complaints about some of the clowns groping some of the young girls.”

“Yeah, I remember you telling me. It’s still a fun tradition, though.”

Holbrook grinned sardonically. “You don’t have to clean up the mess. Do you know what it’s like having a jail full of drunk, belligerent clowns at the station?”

“It must be a real circus,” said Lena, grinning wickedly.

“You’re a real comedian, Lena.”

“Aw, c’mon. I’m just clowning around.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Holbrook still loved his wife, even after the whole incident with Billy Blake, whatever the hell happened between them. She was his best friend. She always made him laugh.

He forgave, but he never really forgot about it. It was like a stain on their relationship that never went away no matter how you scrubbed it. It just faded over time, and eventually you put a coffee table over it and move on with your life.

“Well, there’s supposed to be a big storm rolling in the day after the parade. Some kinda nor’easter. Hopefully they’ll all clear outta town, and I’ll keep my jail empty.”

“Jim, you know your jail’s never empty. Not in the summer.”

“I’ll take Bennies and Townies over them damned clowns any day.”

Lena waved to Robbie as the ride attendant strapped him into his chair. His slipped off his flip flops and let his toes swing in the air (the ride would stop so that his chair would be precisely where it started, and he’d recover his flip flops). “Where do those clowns come from, anyway?”

“Hell if I know. Not from around here.”

He remembered Sunday school where the teacher talked about plagues of locusts.

Chapter 11

The next morning Bonnie May Tutlidge lay there helpless, weak from an illness that came on quickly. She was so wiped that she was unable to summon the strength to reach the call-bell, even if she wanted to.

She figured it was no use anyway. The nurses never came to check on her. When she hit the call-bell in the past, it would just stay lit until a nurse or aide came into the room to turn it off. They never asked her what she wanted, or if she was all right.

She’d wait until her daughter came to visit again. Boy, oh, boy would…what was her name…boy, would her daughter get an earful. She’d set things right.

The administration always took family seriously. That imperious bitch…the administrator…what was her name…the one that looked like Nurse Ratchet in a cheap pantsuit.

Heaven forbid they lose a resident, causing the census to drop. Their precious census.

Bonnie felt an alien kind of pain radiate from her sinuses to the rest of her head, like thunder crashing inside her skull, battering her brain.

It reminded her of Henry, her dear Henry, who suddenly fell ill and passed fifteen years ago. She remembered it as if it was yesterday, but she’d be damned if she could remember what she had for breakfast.

Poor Henry. She could see him so clearly in her mind’s eye, a strapping young man, like on the day they were married in Arkansas.

Pain radiated inside her skull, behind her eyes, practically shoving them out of her sockets. At least that’s how she felt it. Her blood burned in her veins. She scratched her arms absent-mindedly in response to the tingling from within, an itch she’d never reach.

Bonnie turned her head on her drenched pillow…was that from her? Was it sweat? She looked at her roommate. What was her name? Nice Italian lady, despite the fact that the woman referred to her as a ‘colored.’ There were a couple of Italian words that Bonnie didn’t understand, but she had a feeling about their meaning.

It wasn’t the first time she was treated differently because of her skin color. Heck, when Henry passed and she moved up north to be near her daughter, she’d expected things in that department to improve.

As it ended up, people weren’t as vocal about her skin color. They were quiet about it, but she sensed the same sentiments were there.

She didn’t know why. She was from another generation. She saw how the youth of today dressed, with their pants down to their ankles. Like anyone wanted to see their drawers! How they grabbed their…member, as if it would jump off their body and run away. The music! Don’t get her started on the music. She remembered when her parents gave her heck about Elvis Presley.

“Don’t you watch that white man, shakin’ his hips on that stage,”
her mother admonished.
“It’s unseemly. We’re church-goin’ folks.”

The truth was, compared to today’s music about
bitches
and
hoes
, that handsome man shaking his hips was nothing.

The Italian woman said something to her, yanking her out of her private reverie. Her head was a furnace. “What?”

“I said,” repeated the woman, “you don’t look so good.”

“I-I…”

Bonnie couldn’t find the words to finish her thought. Yet, she knew exactly what she wanted to say. She was pretty sure she knew what she wanted to say.

Frustrated, Bonnie turned her head so that she was gazing up at the white ceiling and closed her eyes. When she re-opened them, the Italian woman was standing over her, clutching her call-bell. “What?” was all she could manage.

The Italian woman pressed the call-bell, and the light above Bonnie’s bed lit up as a haze drifted over her vision. It was as if her brain fogged over.

Bonnie reached over and clasped the Italian woman’s hand in hers. She wanted to express her gratitude for this stranger’s concern for a ‘colored’ old woman from Arkansas. She’d be sure to tell her daughter…what was her name again…about this kind old woman…

Mama Sophia smiled at Bonnie, a smile that was more pity than concern. However, her smile faded into disgust as Bonnie pulled her hand to her mouth as if to kiss it.

Mama Sophia thought the gesture was unnecessary and almost regretted interceding. Her disgust turned to fear when the colored woman sank her teeth into her hand.

Mama Sophia yanked her hand away, clutching the bite with her other hand, rubbing the pain away. The other woman began to growl like an animal as Mama Sophia shrank back, clutching her hand.

Then the woman let out a banshee wail. “Screeeeeeee!”

Mama Sophia tripped over her walker and fell backward, her walker landing across her chest.

Bonnie rolled out of bed and onto her feet, standing unsteadily like a drunk. Her eyes were all white and had dark circles around them. She looked more animal than human.

Bonnie suddenly lunged at Mama Sophia, landing on top of the sideways walker. She leaned her head in as Mama Sophia did her best to push her away, screaming on the top of her seventy-eight-year-old lungs.

Bonnie snapped her jaws wildly at her, the force sending her dentures dropping out of her mouth and onto Mama Sophia. The walker kept the rabid woman at enough of a distance that her jaws never found purchase.

A nurse appeared in the doorway and screamed when she saw the two elderly ladies struggling on the floor. “I need help in here, NOW!”

Two aides came running inside the room, and all three staff pulled Bonnie off Mama Sophia. Bonnie tried to bite their forearms as they struggled to grab hold of her, but without her dentures, she was just gumming.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Russo?” asked the nurse.

Mama Sophia looked down at her hand. “I-I fell.” She swiped her hand to push the slimy dentures off her face and wiped the thick drool off her mouth and cheek with the back of her hand.

The two aides placed Bonnie back on her bed, and the nurse, Ms. Honeywell, ran over to Mama Sophia. “Oh, goodness. Norton, help me get Mrs. Russo up off the floor. Charlie, call a code blue on Ms. Tutlidge.”

Ms. Norton came to assist while Ms. St. Charles leaned out the doorway, shouting something to the ward clerk. Bonnie sat on the bed as if in a trance, her chest heaving as she hyperventilated. There were names being called on the intercom out in the hallway.

Ms. Honeywell and Ms. Norton placed their hands under Mama Sophia’s arms and lifted her slowly to a standing position. Mama Sophia was a hair under five feet tall and weighed only one hundred and eight pounds, so the lift was relatively easy.

They sat her gently on the bed.

“Are you hurt?” asked Ms. Honeywell.

Mama Sophia was staring at Bonnie, who was hyperventilating, her chest rising and falling in quick, staccato motions.

“Mrs. Russo?”

Mama Sophia held out her hand to Mrs. Honeywell.

Ms. Honeywell took her hand and turned it, palm facing down. There was a small abrasion on the back of her wrinkled, spotted hand.

“Did she bite you?” asked Ms. Norton.

Mama Sophia couldn’t take her eyes off her roommate. There was something gravely wrong with her. Not medically. She’d been touched by the
malocchio
. She had the devil in her now.

“Tutlidge didn’t have her teeth in,” answered Ms. Honeywell. “It’s probably from the fall. We need x-rays on Mrs. Russo.”

Mr. Yost came barging into the room. He looked at Mrs. Russo, then Mrs. Tutlidge, then at Mrs. Russo again. “What happened?”

“We have another one,” said Honeywell.

“Was she bitten?” Yost asked, pointing to Mrs. Russo.

“She has an abrasion on the back of her left hand, but Mrs. Tutlidge didn’t have her teeth in. I think it’s from the fall.”

However, it appeared Yost didn’t want to take Honeywell’s word for it. He crossed the room, slipping on latex gloves, to where Mama Sophia sat on her bed and took her left hand in his. He turned it over to look at the back.

He leaned in close and ran a gloved hand over it as Mama Sophia winced, finally tearing her gaze away from Bonnie Tutlidge. She shot Yost daggers.

“It looks like she cut it on something when she fell. Maybe the walker,” he said to Honeywell. Then to Mama Sophia, “Did she bite you, sweetheart?”

Mama Sophia never liked Yost. Who ever heard of a male nurse? He must be a real mama’s boy, and an arrogant jerk to boot. She simply pulled her hand away from his and cradled it in her lap.

Yost shook his head in disapproval and turned to Bonnie, who had at some point stopped hyperventilating like a dog in a hot car at noon in August. She was sitting still on the bed in her trance, looking at nothing with those blank eyes. “Cancel the code blue.”

“But Mr. Yost—”

“Cancel it, Honeywell. Now. Mrs. Tutlidge has stabilized.”

Stabilized? Mama Sophia laughed at the word. She pointed a gnarled finger at her roommate. “Diablo!” She flashed devil horns at Bonnie, aiming her right index and pinkie fingers at the sick woman.

“That’s not nice,” admonished Ms. Norton.

Yost shook his head. “It’s an Italian thing. She’s protecting her. From the evil eye.”

Norton looked at him, incredulous.

He shrugged his shoulders. “My best friend growing up was Italian. His grandmother did it to us all the time before we went outside to play.” He sighed. “Okay, let’s get x-rays on Mrs. Russo, here, and let’s move Mrs. Tutlidge to the locked dementia unit.

Honeywell nodded and left the room to contact the physician to expedite the x-rays.

Norton ran out into the hallway and returned with a wheelchair. She and St. Charles lifted Bonnie Tutlidge, lowered her into the wheelchair, and wheeled her out of the room.

It was the last time Mama Sophia would ever set eyes on Bonnie Tutlidge again.

“We’re very sorry,” Yost said to Mrs. Russo. “She won’t be back in this room. I’ll have the psychologist drop in to talk to you, make sure you’re okay.” He paused for some kind of acknowledgement from Mama Sophia, but she only glared at him.

“Well, okay then,” he said and left the room.

“Faccia brutta,” Mama Sophia muttered to herself.

Yost strode over to the nurses’ station and picked up the phone, dialing zero. The receptionist picked up. “Hi, Yolanda, it’s Mr. Yost. Can you page Dr. Bigelow for me?...Thanks.”

***

Tara stepped into Mama Sophia’s room, where she found her sitting on her bed watching daytime television. It was one of those talk shows that did paternity tests for trashy people, often ending in a fist fight on the stage.

Mama sat on her bed, a look of profound disgust on her face, but Tara wasn’t sure if it was about the television show or the incident that had just occurred.

“Mrs. Russo?”

Mama Sophia looked up at the doctor. Great. Another colored girl. But this one was pretty. “Yes.”

“My name is Dr. Bigelow. I’m a psychologist here, and I heard what happened.” Mama Sophia grimaced at the reference. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

This doctor had a kind way about her. Mama Sophia decided she’d answer her questions. “Please. Sit.” She gestured to an empty metal chair.

Tara smiled and sat across from Mama Sophia, who picked up her large remote with the over-sized buttons for the sight-impaired and turned off the television.

Tara nodded thanks at the courtesy, as it was one she rarely received from the other residents. She usually had to shout over the television as the resident partially attended to her questions.

“Thank you,” said Tara. Mama Sophia nodded back. “What happened?”

“That colored woman,” she said, oblivious to whom she was speaking to, or just not caring at all, “she attacked me.”

Tara ignored the racial reference. “Did you two have an argument?”

Mama Sophia shook her head. “No. She looked sick, so I pressed the button to bring the nurse. She needed help.”

“Oh. That was nice of you. You were looking out for her.” Mama Sophia nodded. “Then what happened?”

“She grabbed my hand, like this…” she grabbed Tara’s hand in hers, holding it tightly. “Then she tried to bite me. Like animale.”

“Oh my goodness. So what did you do then?”

“I pulled my hand away and fell on the floor. She came on top of me and attacked me.”

“Well, she was very sick. I’m sorry that happened to you, Mrs. Russo. She won’t be coming back to this room again.”

Mama Sophia nodded solemnly. “She had the
malocchia
.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“A curse. The touch of the devil.”

“Ah, I see. Well, you’re safe now. Do you feel safe?”

Mama Sophia nodded.

“Good. How about I come and check on you every so often? See how you’re doing.”

Mama Sophia shook her head. “No. That’s not necessary.”

Tara had a sense of this woman. This was one tough, old Italian lady. She was probably the matriarch of her family, probably raised her children single-handedly, and cooked pasta and gravy for her entire clan every Sunday.