Gateways, page 10
The words shocked Semelee. She’d thought of herself as somethin of a goodtime gal, of easy virtue maybe, but not the school slut. And it wasn’t like Semelee loved Jesse or nothin, or ever even entertained the idea that he loved her, but…he’d been talkin about her like she was a pull of chewin tobacco that he was gonna pass around between his friends.
With some kickin and clawin she broke free and ran out—not just out of the boys room, but out of the school as well. She could’ve gone to the principal, but it would be the word of three of the football stars against the school slut, and besides, nothin had happened.
So she’d run home. And there was Freddy. Alone. Drinkin a beer. And horny. He offered her a brew, then started touchin her. Semelee just snapped. She started screamin and throwin things and the next thing she knew Freddy was out the door and headin for his car.
He musta called Momma because half an hour later she came stormin in, started slappin at Semelee, callin her a little whore for playin hooky so she could come on to Freddy. Now look what she’d done! Freddy was gone, sayin he wasn’t stayin in no house with a freaky piece of jailbait tryin to get him in trouble.
Momma wouldn’t listen to her, and Semelee’d been hurt that her own momma was takin Freddy’s side over hers. But then Momma crushed her, sayin she wished Semelee’d never been born, wished she’d died like all the other girls been born to the lagoon folk round that time, that she’d been a weight around her neck ever since, draggin her down, her white hair scarin off the men interested in Momma.
That did it. Semelee busted out through the door with no direction in mind and kept goin. She wound up on the beach where she collapsed on the sand. Her momma, who she’d thought of as her best friend, her only true friend, hated her, had always hated her. She wanted to die.
She thought about drowning herself but didn’t have the energy to jump in the water. The tide was out so she decided to just lie here on the sand and let the water come to her, wash her out to sea, and that would be the end of it. No more hassles, no more names like “Granny,” no more heartbreak, no nothin.
She lay there on her back in the sand with her eyes closed. The sun was so bright it blazed through her lids, botherin her. She didn’t have her sunglasses on her but she did have those two shells around her neck. They was just the right size to go over her eyes. It’d be like layin in a tannin booth.
As she sat up to untie the thong, she saw the gulls glidin overhead and wished she had wings like them so she could fly away.
She lay back on the sand and fitted a shell over each eye—
What?
She snatched the shells away from her eyes and levered back up to sittin.
What just happened?
She’d put the shells over her eyes expectin to see black. But she’d seen white instead…white sand…and she’d been above it, lookin down on a girl lyin in the sand…a girl with shells over her eyes.
Semelee put those shells over her eyes again and suddenly she was lookin down on a girl sitting in the stand—a girl with fire-engine hair.
That’s me!
She pulled off the shells again and looked up. A seagull hovered above, looking down at her, probably wondering if she had a sandwich and might throw it a crust or two.
She started experimentin and found she could look through the eyes of any bird on the beach. She could soar, she could hover, she could spot a fish near the surface of the water and dive for it. Then she discovered she could see through fishes’ eyes, swim around the rocks and coral and stay underwater as long as she pleased without comin up for air.
It was wonderful. She spent the rest of the day testin her powers. Finally, after the sun had set, she headed home. She didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to see her momma’s face, but she had no place else to go.
When Semelee opened the door to the trailer Momma was all tears and apologies, sayin she hadn’t really meant what she’d said, that she was just upset and talkin crazy. But Semelee knew the truth when she heard it. Momma had said what was deep in her heart and meant every word of it.
But Semelee didn’t care now. She’d thought her world had ended but now she knew it was just beginnin. She knew she was special. She could do somethin no one else could do. They could make fun of her, call her names, but no one could hurt her now.
She was special.
But now she’d lost one of her shells. She’d lose all her specialness without them. She’d be a nobody again.
Semelee gripped the edges of the canoe in white-knuckled panic. “I just had a terrible thought, Luke. What if I dropped it back in that hospital room?”
6
When Jack returned to his father’s room, almost an hour after he’d left, he was in a foul mood. He could have called the rental agency to come and change the tire, but had canned that course of action. He’d had no idea where he was, so how could he tell them where to find him?
So he’d changed the tire himself. No biggee. He’d changed a lot of tires in his day, but usually on pavement. Today the jack had kept slipping in the sand, fraying his patience. Then the clouds wandered off to let the sun out so it could cook him. But all that wouldn’t have been so bad if the mosquitoes hadn’t declared his skin a picnic ground. Never in all his life had he seen so many mosquitoes. Now his forearms looked like pink bubble wrap and the itching was driving him nuts.
Felt like a jerk for letting those yokels sandbag him like that.
The TV was on and some news head was talking about Tropical Storm Elvis. It had lost a lot of steam crossing northern Florida but was now in the Gulf where it was gaining strength again, stoking itself over the warm waters. Elvis had not entirely left the building.
He went to the bed and checked his father. No change that he could see. He stepped to the window and looked out again at the parking lot. Who were they, the girl and those odd-looking people? From the way the girl had approached the bed—or at least started to—she’d come here with a purpose. But what?
As he turned back to the bed he spotted something on the floor, something glossy black and oblong. He squatted beside it, wondering if it was some sort of Florida bug, a roach maybe. But no, it looked like a shell. He bent closer. It was curved like a mussel but flatter. Some kind of clam, maybe.
As he reached to pick it up, something under the bed caught his eye. Not under the bed exactly—more like behind the headboard. Looked like a slim tree branch standing on its end.
Jack picked up the shell and stepped to the head of the bed. He peeked behind the headboard and found a tin can painted with odd little squiggles sitting atop the branch. He’d seen something like this before, then remembered Anya’s yard—it was full of them.
He smiled. The old lady must think they’re good luck or something. Probably put it here for him when she visited the other day. Might as well leave it. Sure as hell wasn’t doing Dad any harm. And who knew? Maybe it would help him. Jack had seen a lot stranger things these past few months.
As he straightened he noticed a glistening design on the back of the headboard. He slid the bed a few inches away from the wall for a better look. Someone had painted a pattern of black squiggles and circles there. No question as to who, because they were very similar to the squiggles on the can. But how had that skinny old lady moved the bed? It was damn heavy.
Jack decided to ask her later. He pushed the bed back, then placed the shell on the nightstand. Maybe one of the staff had dropped it. If so, they could reclaim it here. At least this way no one would step on it.
Scratching his arms, Jack said goodbye to his father and headed back to the car. He hoped his father had some calamine lotion at home.
7
Back at Gateways Jack found another car parked in the cul-de-sac. Maybe Anya had company. But when he went around to the front of his father’s place he found the front door open and heard voices inside.
He stepped into the front room and found a young woman in a jacket and skirt showing an elderly couple through the house.
“Who the hell are you?” Jack said.
The old folks jumped and the young woman clutched her looseleaf notebook defensively against her chest. Jack figured he might have had a little too much edge on his voice, but that was the kind of mood he was in.
“I-I’m with Gateways,” the woman said. “I’m showing this couple the house.” She squared her shoulders defiantly. “And just who are you?”
“The owner’s son. What are you doing here?”
The woman blinked. “Oh. I’m so sorry for your loss, but—”
“Loss? What loss? You talk as if my father’s dead.”
Another blink—a double this time. “You mean he’s not?”
“Damn right, he’s not. I just came from the hospital. He’s not too healthy at the moment, but he’s not dead.”
The old couple were looking uncomfortable now. They stared at the ceiling, at the rug, anywhere but at Jack.
“Oh, dear,” the younger woman said. “I was told he was.”
“Even if he was, so what? What are you doing here?”
“I was showing it to these—”
Fury hit him like a kick in the gut. Vultures!
“Showing it? Where do you get off showing this place to anyone? It’s his until he sells it.”
Another squaring of the shoulders, this time with a defiant lift of the chin. “Apparently you don’t know the arrangement in Gateway communities.”
“Apparently I don’t. But I’m going to find out. As for now”—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder—“out.”
“But—”
“Out!”
She strode out the door with her head high. The old couple shuffled out behind her.
“I’m sorry,” the old woman said, pausing as she passed.
“Not your fault,” Jack told her.
She put a wrinkled hand on his arm. “I hope your father gets well soon.”
“Thank you,” he said, feeling suddenly deflated.
He closed the door after them and leaned against it. He’d overreacted. He told himself it was the frustration of all these questions with no answers. Not one goddamn answer.
Bad day. And it was only noon.
He was just turning away from the door when he heard a knock. He counted to three, promised he’d be more genteel this time about telling the sales lady where she could stick her commission, and pulled open the door.
But Anya stood there instead. She held out a familiar taped-over FedEx box.
“This came while you were out,” she said. “I signed for it.”
Ah. His Glock and his backup. Now he could feel whole again.
“Thanks.”
“Heavy,” she said. “What’ve you got in there? Lead?”
“You might say. Come on in where it’s cool.”
“I can’t stay. You were by the hospital already?”
Jack nodded. “No change.” He debated whether or not to ask her about the can on the stick behind his father’s headboard but decided to save it for later. “Are you going over?”
She nodded. “I thought I’d sit with him for a while.”
What a grand old lady. “I’ll give you a lift.”
She waved him off. “I’ve already called a cab.” She turned to go. “I’ll be back later. Cocktails at five, if you’re available.”
He couldn’t turn her down twice. “It’s a date.” Jack thought of something. “By the way, who’s the head honcho around here?”
“You mean Gateways?”
“Yeah. The general manager or acting director or chairman of the board of whatever you call him. Who runs the show?”
“That would be Ramsey Weldon. You can find him at the administration building. You can’t miss it. It’s mostly glass and right on the golf course. Why?”
“We need to have a little tête-à-tête,” Jack said.
8
The administration building was pretty much as Anya had described it: a small, cubical structure sheathed in mirrored glass. As Jack got out of his car he saw a tall, distinguished-looking man unlocking the door to a classic-looking four-door sedan. He looked fiftyish, had longish black hair, graying at the temples, and wore a milk-chocolate brown lightweight silk suit that perfectly matched the color of his beautifully restored car: two-tone—white over brown—with wide whitewall tires.
“Am I dreaming,” Jack said, “or is that a 1956 Chrysler Crown Imperial?”
The man’s smile was tolerant, and his tone carried a hint of impatience.
“It’s a Crown Imperial, all right, but not a Chrysler. Everyone makes that mistake. Chrysler spun off the Imperial into its own division in 1954. This baby came out two years later.”
“It’s beautiful,” Jack said, meaning it.
He ran a hand along the crest of the rear fender to one of the stand-alone taillights, sticking up like a miniature red searchlight. The chrome of the split grille gleamed like a gap-toothed grin; the flawless finish threw back his reflection.
God, he wished he could use something like this for his wheels. But it was too conspicuous. The last thing he wanted was people to notice him as he drove around. That was why he’d finally given up Ralph, his old ’63 Corvair convertible. People kept stopping him and asking about it.
“You restore this yourself?”
“Yes, it’s a hobby of mine. Took me two years. Fewer than eleven thousand Imperials were made in ’56 and only a hundred and seventy were Crowns. This one has the original engine, by the way—a 354-cubic-inch Hemi V-8.”
“So it cranks.”
“Yes, indeed. It cranks.” He looked at Jack. “Visiting, I assume?”
“Yeah, in a way. My father’s in the hospital in a coma and—”
“You’re Tom’s son? Poor man. How is he?”
Jack was surprised at the instant recognition. “Not great. You know him?”
He stuck out his hand. “Ramsey Weldon. I’m director of Gateways South.”
“Isn’t that something,” Jack said, shaking his hand. “I came here looking for you.”
“I bet I know why, too. I got a call from one of our sales team. It seems she was given false information about your father. The initial word from the hospital was that he was DOA. I’m terribly sorry about the misunderstanding.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “I can see somebody getting the wrong information, but where did she get off showing the place to prospective buyers?”
“Because she thought—erroneously—that the place belonged to Gateways.”
“Where would she get an idea like that?”
Weldon’s eyebrows rose. “Upon the death of the owner—or owners—the house reverts to Gateways.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “That’s the arrangement. It’s not unique. Plenty of graduated-care senior communities have similar arrangements.”
“I can’t believe my father signed on for that.”
“Why not? His purchase of the home and the bond guarantees him not only a place to live, but quality care from the moment he signs to the moment he goes to meet his maker, no matter how long it takes. Members of a Gateways community will never be a burden on their families. ‘What do we do with Papa?’ or ‘Who’s going to take care of Mom?’ are questions that will never arise in their families.”
A smooth pitch, delivered with the timing and conviction of a lifelong salesman. Jack could see how powerful that pitch could be to someone like his father who had a lot of pride and had always been an independent sort.
“At no point,” Weldon went on, “will your father be a burden on his children. And at no point will you have to feel guilty about him, because you can rest assured that he’s being well cared for.”
“Maybe it’s not so much guilt I’m feeling as—pardon me if I sound paranoid, but it seems to be to your advantage to have a quick turnover in housing.”
Weldon laughed. “Please, please, we’re asked that all the time. But you have to remember, this isn’t a Robin Cook novel. This is real life. Trust me, it’s all been amortized and insured and reinsured. You can check our financials. Gateways is a public company that posts an excellent bottom line every year.”
He noticed that Weldon was starting to sweat. But then, so was Jack. It was like a steam bath out here on the macadam.
“Then I’m not the first to raise the question.”
“Of course not. Our society is conspiracy crazy, seeing dark plots wherever it looks. I assure you, Gateways takes excellent care of its citizens. We do care. And our caring is what makes our citizens recommend Gateways to their friends and relatives. That’s why we have waiting lists all over the country and can’t build these communities fast enough. Just one example is the availability of free annual exams I instituted last year to catch medical problems early when they’re most treatable.”
“Really? Where are they done?”
“Right there in the clinic.” He pointed to a one-story structure a hundred yards away across a dead lawn. “It’s attached to the skilled nursing facility.”
Jack guessed that was Gateways-speak for nursing home.
“Do you think I could speak to the doctor about my father?”
“Please. Go right ahead.” He glanced at his watch. “Oops. Going to be late for my meeting.” He thrust out his hand again. “Nice meeting you, and good luck to your father. We’re all pulling for him.”
He slipped into his car and started it up. Jack listened to the throaty roar of its V-8 and, again, wanted one.
He watched him drive away. During all that talk he’d tried to get a bead on Ramsey Weldon but couldn’t get past the smooth all-business, all-for-the-company exterior. If his father’s accident hadn’t been hit and run, he wouldn’t have bothered. But since it was…
