The Ocelot and The Three Mikes, Installment #2

 The Ocelot and The Three Mikes, Installment #2 

Short Fiction (as usual: in progress, blemishes and all, minimally edited) by Jennifer McAuley

And so the story of  Beverly and Jeff, Grandmother and Grandson, continues. See my last post for the beginning of the story. Full disclosure: I may go back and edit old posts. After all, these are all works in progress . . .

Fire Curl Twins

After switching to the car, they stopped only twice. Once to grab necessities at a squatting strip mall with a grocery store and a Walmart, and then to pick up the twins. Sandy and the kids were sitting on the front steps waiting, front door wide and letting in flies, basking in the summer sun that had arrived so early that year.

“Your Dad’s been calling, leaving messages, says you’ve kidnapped your Grandma?” Sandy stood, pushing Kaleb’s back pack toward Jeffery. The twins disappeared into the house to collect their shoes and afterthoughts.

“You say anything?” Under his sunglasses she could see his eyes blink once, twice, but couldn’t make out their shape.

“Nah.” Sandy’s green eyes drifted to the Cherokee where Beverly’s white corona of hair bobbed above the dash.

Sandy knew how to keep secrets. Jeffery paid her every month, double what he had to legally. In cash. More if she needed it. Mostly punctual picking up Samantha and Kaleb. Whenever he could be. And he was great with the kids. Sandy wished he had loved her half as much as he loved the twins. She had figured out long ago Jeffery’s vines twisted in the opposite direction, nothing she could so about that.

“Well, don’t.” he said. “not a word.” She squinted at him then, trying to read him through the lenses, studying his mouth which was a grim line. She planted kisses on the children when they re-emerged, forced them into hugs, though they were excited to go.

“Go on then. But Jeff? We need to talk soon, ok?” Samantha and Kaleb had settled in the Cherokee’s dusty back seats and Beverly had rolled down the window to wave at Sandy.

East

They waved out the windows and headed east. Sky, water and lots of green. Emerald, olive, moss, smaragdine. Close enough that the drive couldn’t be called arduous. Far enough that cel phones didn’t work. Close enough that there was a paved road for a while, far enough that once the pavement ran out there was a long curl of gravel. There were neighbors, close enough that they might hear the occasional dog barking or the echo of a shotgun, far enough that conversations were private and the curtains could be left open.

They got to the cabin before dusk. They stood on the wood deck that Grandpa Al had built watching the sky go crazy before it let go of the sun. The sunset was reflected, upside down and backwards, in the still lake. The twins’ red curls clutched at the light making it appear as though their heads had caught fire. Beverly used Al’s old walker to shuffle around, inspecting for weak spots in the wood. Then she sat down on a rusted deck chair and studied her favorite grandson and her two great grandkids as they watched the sky. Her eyes landed again on Jeffery’s leather vest, the fearsome cat that had defined his whole adult life. After a moment she turned and said, “Did I ever tell you story about the Golden Ocelot?”

The Cabin

After a simple dinner, steamy Ramen noodles floating with snap peas, the twins settled onto the old sagging sofa in the dusty cabin, leaving the recliner for Beverly. The cabin had not been used much in recent years, but other than the dust, it was just as Beverly remembered. The long bookshelf along one wall, the pine walls that stared out everywhere with knotty, contorted faces. The curtains she had sewn out of Al’s old ties, a celebration of his retirement. The oval rag-rug her mother had made on the plywood floor Al never got the chance to finish properly. The gun cabinet, also of pine, locked tight and beckoning to her from it’s corner by the river rock fireplace.

Jeffery set about tidying up in the small kitchen, his hands lingering in the soapy water, his eyes drifting to the dusky field and darkening forest framed by the small window above the sink. Beverly’s lilting voice reminded him of his time with her as a boy. Wild stories, either about riding horses and shooting gophers or about foreign lands and magical creatures. They were the catechism of his childhood, a Sunday School that really mattered, if he had only managed to listen a little deeper. He had been distracted by his own fantasy, by the escape. The Ocelots.

“Many people believe,” Beverly started, “that Ocelots are found only in the humid jungles of South America, where the Mayan pyramids reach up to the sky in jagged steps. You’ve seen those in pictures, right? Hundreds of little steps like rows of pointy teeth.” Jeffery glanced over to see one garnet head nodding up and down, the other side to side. “Well, tomorrow, if you’re so inclined, you can probably find more about them in one of those.” She waved a hand towards the roughly hewn bookshelf filled with dated National Geographics, their yellow spines monopolizing three whole rows. On the shelf above those, a set of ancient encyclopedias, cream faux leather with fancy gold script, the edges of the pages gilded.

“In the ancient world there was a rare and mystical creature that lived in the far east. It was the Golden Ocelot, born in the Papyrus marshes that used to exist there, back before all of Egypt turned to sand. . .”

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The Golden Ocelot and The Three Mikes: New Short Story by Jennifer McAuley

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.