The Golden Ocelot and The Three Mikes.
A little introduction, dear reader, to my latest short story (do I even have any readers? Well, I'm pretending I do anyway!). I think I'll keep posting this one, a drip at a time for the next few weeks. Meet Beverly, a fiesty Octegenarian who's recently been put in a nursing home due to medical reasons and her Harley-riding, criminal grandson, Jeff. Both need to "escape," both crave freedom, both have a story to tell. Maybe they can help each other out.
The Golden Ocelot and The Three Mikes.by Jennifer McAuley
Paracusia
Jeffery was glad to be back on the west coast. Winnipeg was
foul in the summer: a smear of grey under stifling sky, the smell of armpits. The
blood suckers, titan mosquitos and fangy horse flies, were so bad he was
starting to get paranoid. He imagined hearing their high pitch whine
everywhere. Awake at four am, a magazine in hand, standing on the bed, mosquito
hunting when he should be sawing logs. Effen’
Mikey. He thought. There’s only so much a guy can take. And now this.
Glad to be back. Mountains like slicing canines devouring the
sky, menthol air clearing his chest, lakes clean enough to drink and the promising
smell of grass. So fresh and pretty he could almost forget the rest. The summer
growl of his bike-- now that was a sound he could listen to all day.
He cut the burbling engine outside the old folks home, rolled
the bike into place on the balls of his feet. It was so loud even the pruned
men sitting on the front bench could hear. They eyed the chrome and black beast
warily with their raisin eyes. It was a stallion, airbrushed flames licking the
tank in tones of silver and gold. Maybe Grams
would hear him coming too. Jeffery spat sharply on the sidewalk. He
couldn’t believe his old man had put her here. Actually he could. Effen’ Ed.
Lost Teeth
He made his way to the main floor lounge after stopping at
reception. The woman at the sliding window said, “And who are you looking for?”
her voice incredulous, as though she couldn’t believe he could have a grandmother.
Dip Shit, he thought, everyone has a grandmother. “Beverly” his
deep voice had a way of carrying, even when he spoke softly. “Beverly Freison.”
“Oh, you’re Beverly’s grandson?” The woman’s voice turned
velvety. “I just love her. I used to read her books to my kids—“ Her voice
receded into silence as she caught his stony stare. “That way. . .” she
mumbled, pointing a limp hand.
Two corners and there was Beverly, curled into a wheelchair
chair, her foamy hair flattened against her head instead of in the pearly,
robust waves he was used to seeing. She drooped beside big double doors that
opened onto the back garden. The home reminded him of Winnipeg, the smell of
body order and urine, the air stale and stuffy. The ceilings were too low and
his Daytons didn’t make the usual authoritative clonk-clonk on the rubbery
floors. Their purposeful sound was sucked right into the flesh of the building.
“Grams,” he said, forcing his big body into an awkward squat.
He didn’t fake a smile. She was uncharacteristically diminutive with a far-away
look he wasn’t sure he had seen before. Or maybe once, after Al had died. The
look was all wrong.
“Jeffery?” she turned to him, her face lifted, pleased. “I’m
tho habby to thee you. Wherve you been?”
Jeffery frowned. “Where are your teeth, Gramma?” he asked, concerned.
He did not like seeing Beverly here, in this smug, pastel home. It was nothing
like her. Demeaning. All dull where she was sharp. Soft gums where teeth should
be.
“Folen. Derk Finglehursh” she shrugged passively. Barely a
sign of her usual salt and vinegar.
“Stolen!” he announced, stretching back up to his full 6 feet
and 3 inches. An orderly, weaving a wide arc around the visiting giant, flashed
a timid smile at Beverly. “Morning, Mrs. Freison.” Her voice was helium, like
the rainbow balloons on her scrubs. No, Jeffery did not like this one bit,
Beverly did not belong here. He felt his molars slam against each other in a
Pitbull clench, a dull stab in his chest and the gasping feeling that had been
growing more familiar in the past months. Enough. He could do something about this.
Jeffery maneuvered her down the bending halls, while Beverly
pointed. Eventually they found the room. The plaque beside the door said, Welcome! Derk Finklehurst. Alongside was a snapshot of a spotted man smiling
out of his necktie. Jeffery parked Beverly on the threshold of the room. She
held up a claw-like hand, pointed a wrinkled finger to the corner where an oak
highboy stood.
Found
He strode to the dresser, his mountainous body taking up the
entire room. Now that his back was to her, she studied his leather vest, the
gold and cream Ocelot that inhabited the space there, claws extracted, canines
exposed. Jeffery’s ponytail hung in a girlish curl, brushing the tips of the
Ocelot’s ears and obscuring the gothic script that pronounced his club. The Ocelots. The Ocelots: what he used to call his real family, and oh how that rankled, making Beverly’s blood boil. Now, every time she saw
it, which was every time she saw Jeffery, it was a tiny slap. A sting of
failure.
Jeffery picked through the top drawer. Like a bear plucking
berries, with an unexpected gentleness.
Eventually he turned to Beverly with meaty fists full of false teeth.
Some partial, some full sets. He dumped the grinning ivory and pink flesh onto
the neatly made bed and rolled Beverly closer. She reached out an arthritic
hand and sifted through, finally emerging with her lost dentures.
Jeffery gathered up the rest of the teeth, dropping them loudly
on the pink counter at the central nursing station. The woman there jumped, not
at the clatter of the dentures but at the sight of Jeffery. She relaxed a
little as he explained, interrupting only once to say, “Sir, we can’t go
through resident’s personal effects.” Jeffery gave her his best bouncer stare,
arms crossed across his wide chest, let
it go, before wheeling Beverly to her room.
Grin and Bare It
Beverly hobbled to the bathroom, rinsed her teeth and sighed
as she smeared the denture adhesive over the false gums. She wiggled them into
place in her mouth, pushing upward with force until she felt the soft assurance
of suction on her gums. She hobbled out of the matchstick bathroom to Jeffery,
smiling. Showing off her teeth, grinning widely despite the newly extracted
veins hollering up her swollen legs. She felt invigorated. Her spine
straightened. Jeffery was her favorite, her special boy. She was so happy to see
him now, here, she felt as though she might break out in hysterical laughter.
Or she might cry. Neither of those reactions could help anything. She needed to
stay strong.
Jeffery was sitting on the small bed, greyish eyes casing the
joint, big boot tapping. There were only a few clues that this was Beverly’s
room and not merely another generic hospital room for a bleary-eyed senior
losing their mind. The pile of books on the bedside table, all fiction, a few
Louis L’Amour westerns of course. A line up of Beverly’s collected works, a
beaten anthology in primary colours, lined a small shelf. The picture of the
two of them at the cabin, he must have been about 15 in that picture, pimples
and a muscle tank, trying to show off his pipes. A framed series of the great grandchildren,
school photos, including Samantha and Kaleb, distinct from the others with
their mother’s wild red curls and intelligent, under-water eyes. Ed hadn’t even
brought Beverly’s old Hermes Portable.
“That Finklehurst! He
was a dentist – or no! A denturist? I suppose that’s why he pinches the teeth.
They won’t let us lock the doors! The orderlies go around and collect them
eventually but I’ve gone a full twenty fours without—“
“So Grams, whatdaya think? I’m thinking we’ve gotta bust you
outta here. One way or another.”
“Jeffery.” Grams’ sharp eyes cut through him, like she was
pointing her Smith and Wesson at his forehead. “What’s wrong? Where have you
been? I’m not allowed to leave, you know that. I’m on the list for a suite,
your Dad says--”
“No. Don’t care. Can you ride? I’m taking you to the cabin.”
Beverly’s heart thumped like a wild-eyed stallion in her chest. Longing
blossoming. A peony bloom. She tried not to grin, to give herself away. Impossible.
“What the hell!” Her newly found dentures flashed white and
hopeful. She shuffled back to the bathroom to put on a Depends. Jeffery helped
her stuff her legs into her support hose. Oh how her legs ached after her
surgery. Who cared? She packed a small backpack hastily. Medication, photos and
what the heck! She grabbed the Lois L’Amour she was half way through, and
another one too. She was too old to care about library fines. Anyway, she was
the only one who read those books around here, all the old coots went for the
large print.
Escape
How Beverly loved the feel of that bike. She could feel the
thrum of the engine in every corner of her worn out body. The pleasure of
vibration humming right into her forgotten parts. Yup, no matter how old and
broken she might be, there was still a wild prairie girl buried. A shallow
grave of memory and flesh, turns out. Exhilaration as she held onto Jeffery’s
solid back for dear life. The speed making her giddy. Soon she would be aching,
her back, her legs. But in those first few minutes as they cruised out of the
city, toward Jeffery’s trailer and the small, emerald colored city of Hope, she
felt impossibly young. Riding her horse on the old farm, the wind in her hair. She
could blame the sharpness of the wind for any tears.
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