Through the Virgin Mirror
a short story feat. ‘Thom Pope’
It’s a shame detective Holmes lived and died before the synthesis of lysergic acid diethylamide. What wonders could have been unlocked if he had insight into the breath of an active world. Had he another twenty years, I harbor no doubt he would’ve gained the recipe and had his burners bubbling with ergotamine tartrate. Though it’s a tricky trend for the hophead, trading tourniquet for the tab. Never the twain shall meet. Even I in my halcyon days snuffed a fair share of battered morphine pills (believe it or not, such was before my love affair with tobacco), but I wouldn’t dare switch for a drink or a tab. Except fortune favors a compromise. Despite having fewer feelings than a calculator, I never lost the romanticism of the poppy’s natural byproduct, and even though its more potent syntheses flooded the market, I always sought the authentic touchstone. Alas, without a script, I relied on cancer patients looking for a side income, and in time, there were none.
Now, from where I hail, access to the tab is as common as rocks to a quarry. Sweet city of gold, one hundred and ten miles northwest, where it seems the right people have more blotter paper than baggies, whether it’s rotting sunshine or high octane, and were I not scheduled to move deeper south, I’d be there accruing a venerable stash. Bound is the hand and foot.
It might just be worth the trip, as I am unlikely to receive the five grand offered for this case, considering my rendezvous point is a nursing home. Twenty-six miles north of Charlottesville in Tulgeywood. Who, in the confines of a facility forced upon them by their loving children (which leaches all financial security, insured or otherwise), would have a penny, least of all five grand, of disposable income? Not a soul in here.
Quick in-out, confirm absence of worth, head north for tabs. A sign-in sheet bears the weight of a greeter and since the room numbers of residents aren’t on full display, I wait. A half-dead nonagenarian in a wheelchair wearing common attire for these parts, flowery scrubs, sits at the length of reception by an empty fishbowl, and asks me on repeat if I’m her grandson. Here I may settle in to the horrors of old age. Naturally, I ignore her, and she asks and she asks again, then with certainty she declares me her grandson and commands me to give her a kiss. I fend off her advances, both verbal and transportational, her arms strong enough to rotate the wheels on her chair once every few minutes. That is until belligerence returns the call of denial. Oh, lucky me, my first interaction in town nears violence. In fact, quite lucky, as where there’s a raging resident, an orderly is never too far from ground zero, and as if on cue, a door opens in the main hall. The orderly. They accost the old bat, wheeling her to the main hall, facing away from reception. Then they disregard me, making for the staff room, where I butt in with a simple, “Pardon me!”
“Yes?”
“I’m here to see a patient… a, uh, resident.”
“That’s my grandson,” says the woman over her shoulder.
“I’m not her grandson.”
The orderly says, “She thinks everyone under forty is her grandchild. Sign in at the desk and go ahead back.”
“I will, except I don’t know the room number.”
“Who are you here to see?”
“Lewis Wynn.”
“Room 106.”
I thank them, and they return to the staff room. Writing ‘Lewis Wynn, Thom Pope, 11:42’ on the sheet, I carefully traipse around my grandmother and pass into the residence quarters. A medium-sized social hall is my first actual glimpse into the lives of the geriatric. Octogenarian men are watching war films from the couch while octogenarian women piece together a jigsaw puzzle. Then there’s a wheelchair bound man in a red hat kicking the shins of a resident, who just sits there and takes it. Savage habitat. An extreme mixture of tranquility and madness. The only difference I can surmise between this place and a madhouse is… hmm… I’ll have to give that one some more thought.
Boarding sees even on the left, odd on the right. Four doors down. Name tag, ‘Lewis Wynn’. Guess I didn’t need to sign in. The door’s open. Dim lighting. As cold as a surgery. Lewis sits at the far end of the room. He watches out the window. There’s a bird feeder in the side yard. No birds. The room is devoid of personalization. Save for a stuffed bear sat on a visitor’s chair. Either he’s a fresh move or his children want him to know how they really feel. I give a light rap on the door and he peps up with life.
“Detective!?” he exclaims.
“Mr. Wynn.”
“Please, come in.”
I walk to the foot of the bed, passing the bear whose beady eyes follow me, and without a tab in my system, I’m left wondering if I’ve burned a hole in my brain.
“Kick that damn psycho Roosevelt to the ground and have a seat,” says Wynn.
Where my anxious system would otherwise overwhelm, I find myself willing to expose my paranoia in consideration of his comment.
“Does it always follow?”
“My daughter’s sick joke. I think its eyes might be cameras. Seriously, throw it on the ground. Just make sure to put it back when you leave. In case Alice decides to visit.”
I respectfully place it on the cold tile floor, take a seat, and say, “I looked into the living area earlier. Who’s the man with the red hat?”
“Oh, that’s-that’s Red. He kicks the shit out of anyone who gets near him.”
“Lovely fellow.”
“Korea. Loosened a few screws. They held him in a M.A.S.H unit for psychosis after he saw his squad vanish into a pink mist. He’d tell you if you could get close.”
“Except no one can, so how do you know?”
He looks at me something awful, a recognizable curiosity, absolute paranoia, and he asks, “Have you been in Virginia before?”
“Only once. Family vacation. To see the eternal flame.”
“You like Kennedy?”
“Sure.”
“Irish? Catholic? Lady’s man?”
“Civil rights.”
“You biased?”
“I have no particular loyalties. I just believe in human rights.”
“What if someone infringed upon those rights? No matter the circumstances.”
“No matter the circumstances. What circumstances?”
“Psychological experimentation.”
“You could say the infringement of human rights is in itself a psychological experiment.”
“A medical experiment and the participants have no clue they’re a part of it… read that letter,” he points to an envelope laying on the serving tray attached to his bed.
The envelope is blank and inside is a trifold letter with smeared lettering, which reads:
‘Bring me the safe.’
Signed: ⋲
I look around the room and ask, “Where’s the safe?”
Lewis says, “I don’t remember, but that symbol I’ll never forget.”
“Greek?”
“Mathematic. I don’t know what it means other than that’s the symbol we used in Langley.”
“You know who sent this.”
“A carpenter.”
“What?”
“I know a bit about Red, because I know a bit about everyone here. I had them profiled, and there are two men living here within a year of my age who are carpenters. One is actually a carpenter, the other pretended to be a carpenter. Like myself.”
“And you don’t recognize him?”
“I wouldn’t recognize my wife after sixty years, and names don’t mean a thing. We used code. That’s the cost of working with Nazis. Even Americans didn’t have permission to know each other.”
“You want me to figure out which is which?”
“No! Find the safe. I can’t leave, so he can’t leave, and if he’s anything like me, he’d’ve hired someone to find it, in case I didn’t deliver. The contents of that safe are too important to be left to memory.”
“What’s in it?”
“Tincture bottles. An entire case. Which… I-I want you to bring one of those bottles back, yeah, and destroy the rest. Most importantly, there’s classified documents I want returned to Langley, and then there’s your pay.”
“There’s five thousand in this safe?!”
“It should… it should be more like ten thousand. That was enough to start a new life back then…. you need to write any of this down?”
“One tincture bottle. Destroy the case. Classified documents. Five thousand for me. Five thousand for you.”
“What am I gonna do with five thousand dollars? Pay this place two months’ rent? No… all I want are the documents and a bottle. You bring that back and you can keep all the money you find.”
“Alright… let me ask you this, Mr. Wynn. You say you don’t remember where the safe is — ”
“It’s somewhere in the state.”
“You don’t know exactly, yet you know its contents. Were you involved in its concealment?”
Without a beat, he replies, “Of course… sixty years ago. I’m telling you, I don’t remember where. You’re young, so it may seem foolish, but can you remember every hole you dug?”
“No… I wouldn’t remember what I hid, either.”
“Trinkets and newspaper clippings are far less memorable than government secrets, detective.”
“And it stands to reason their location is on a need-to-know basis.”
“You don’t believe me! Fine. I’ll hire someone else.”
“No, I’ll do it. A hint as to its general proximity would help, that’s all, and I think you know.”
“Follow the other guy. Now get the fuck outta here.”
“You mind if I take the letter? For reference?”
“Go ahead.”
Letter in pocket, then Teddy takes the seat. Its beady eyes follow. Tough man. Blend of modernist zeal, the hope of exponential growth on the other side of Berlin, with postmodern disappointment. The question is, is he truly a mix? Has he settled for hope and disappointment, or does he hold one in high regard? Returning classified documents to Langley suggests the job is never finished. What information it holds may suggest it was all for nothing. Either way, the ripples of that war are still being felt. Nazis. He said he worked with Nazis and wasn’t in the Apollo program. Why does that sound familiar?
I stand in the parking lot wondering if I should call a cab, and rummage through my pockets in search of change for the newspaper rack. All I’ve got are bills rolled up and secured by a rubber band. Cigarette it is. And where to? The other guy. Why would there be another guy? Because I’m the second person on this case. There’s a bench next to the entrance and I resolve to use the most proficient tactic any P.I. can use… patience. I sit there for an hour and another hour passes, then a pack later, a cab car pulls up to the nursing home. The passenger gets out and unfolds their wallet, and I, quick to my feet, blood rushing to my head, ready to pass out, take a measured breath and call to them to hold the cab.
“Reservations only. You’ll have to call!”
“I’ll pay double!”
They relay this to the driver and the cab stays. I thank them, and to my surprise, they recognize me.
“You’re Thom Pope, aren’t you? That old bastard getting a second opinion?”
As best as I can bluff, I say, “I am he, but I don’t know what you mean.”
He points to himself and says, “Beaumont Haydn. Private investigator.”
“Sorry… I — uh, don’t know you.”
“Why would’ya? Just odd seeing another detective here.”
“Visiting family.”
“Ah, well, hey, if I run into you again, lunch is on me. I’d love to get an opinion on some cases from the country’s most prolific detective.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He gives me a thumbs up with a chirpy smile and lumbers up to the nursing home. There’s the other guy.
I get in the cab and the driver whips around in their seat and exclaims, “You pay double.”
“If you take me where he came from, I’ll pay quadruple what he paid.”
The cab driver sighs and rights himself and through the rear-view mirror, he says, “I don’t want to go all the way out there. You’re my third pick up today. If I went out there again, you’d be my last. Day gone.”
“Quadruple what he paid. I’m good for it.”
“I won’t do it for anything less than a thousand. It’s too far.”
“Okay.”
“What?!”
“It’s a deal. One thousand.”
“No deal. Show me.”
“Uh… I’m sorry, all I’ve got is five hundred.”
“Get out!”
“Hey! Hey! When we get there…”
“Get out!”
“WHEN WE GET THERE… I can get you the money.”
“There’s nothing out there! Run down! Nothing!”
I take the roll of bills from my pocket and toss it on the dash and say, “Trust me. There’s money where we’re going.”
“Last guy didn’t find anything.”
“I will.”
“OKAY!! — Okay… But if you can’t pay, you walk back.”
“I’d die if I did that. It’s a deal. Let’s go.”
“Two thousand?”
“Two thousand. Let’s go.”
Forty miles through thicket and aggro conversation, we break the Appalachians, and arrive at the end of a dirt path with no discernable direction other than to drive its occupants deeper and deeper into the green sea. Bark everywhere, pebbles galore, more constant life than the most populous city in India, except it’s not visible to the naked eye. Trees make up its most daring inhabitants, and between each is a vast unknown. Nature. I hate nature. Besides the dirt path, all that remains in these parts to suggest hyperintelligent life visited it is an abandoned cottage, neatly tucked where the trees didn’t grow.
Relations have soured with ‘Abra Cabbie’ (as I’ve come to call them since they made a passing comment about supplementing their income with cabbing while they pursue magic). Rather than instituting my imminent death, stranding me in an unfamiliar part of a familiar wood, they conceived of a tremendous economic plan. If you really want to hurt someone, death is not the answer, it’s financial. If I’m gone a minute, I pay one hundred bucks, and for every minute after, this amount doubles. To top it all off, Abra Cabbie points to the weathered cottage and says, “There’s the bank.”
Time trials aren’t really my thing. Too much pressure over trivial pursuits. I’d take it in stride, certain to find the safe in ten minutes, except I can’t afford anything beyond seven minutes. Inside the cottage, the aesthetic is frozen in the seventies, warped and decayed by dust and creatures. The question, where did the other guy leave off waylays the question, where to begin? Tracks of dust cleaned from shifting furniture, open cabinets, and drawn drapes mark the place as recently disturbed. Someone has turned it in and out. Haydn was thorough. No where left to look. Checking my down-turned wrist watch, I notice I’m out an extra two hundred, then I see a blue caterpillar crawl along the floor. A good portion of the carpeting is ripped up, large swaths torn frame a design of wooden floorboards, which the caterpillar moves through like a labyrinth, likely in search of food. Out eight hundred. The caterpillar stops with its right prolegs on a patch of carpet. It pokes its head around and forces it under the carpet and disappears. It disappeared under the carpet! Nothing disappears.
I curl the edge of the carpet up and there’s a gap between the floorboards, which are gnarled and bored through. Feeling a board with my foot, it bows under my weight. With a measured stomp and an apology to the caterpillar, I cave it in. A second board bows and, with a suitable gap and years of disrepair, I lift it, nails and all. Then, with a third board removed, I light my lighter, using it to guide my head under. It’s the scourge of modernist architecture down here. Encampments of warring insects blur the scope of the cottage’s foundation. Caterpillars and mites cautiously navigate the terrain, fearful of the encroaching mandibles of starved spiders. Their massive webs absorb the light, dispelling any recognition of what may be hidden, save for a twinkle when I sway the lighter. In fact, there are multiple twinkles, more like sparkles; small sparkles encircling the twinkle, likely dew stuck to the web, which lose their shine when I move the lighter too far to either side. While the twinkle remains as bright. A larger reflection and wherever it is, it’s not on the web. I pop my head in and out of the hole, guessing where the reflection’s origin may be from the surface. A cabinet in the corner. As good a guess as any. Blowing out the flame, I inspect the cabinet, picking at the floor panel, which shifts out of place like a wooden puzzle box. I remove the false panel, and there it is. The safe. Goddammit! It’s a safe.
I pull on its lid, and of course, it’s locked. Why didn’t I think to inquire about how to unlock it?! Because Wynn didn’t remember where the safe was, and he wouldn’t remember where the key was. Who holds onto a key for sixty years?! Sixty years…. sixty years. How difficult can it be to open a small safe from sixty years ago? I rummage through the kitchen drawers for any utensils, and with a fork, a spatula, and a hammer, I lay siege on the safe. Wedging the fork under the rim of the safe’s lid, I rain down a mighty stomp on the fork’s handle, which bends at a ninety-degree angle into the floor. Fearing the spatula may suffer the same fate, I toss it aside and wedge the hammer’s claw under the rim. With a foot on the lid, I pull on the hammer, dropping all my weight below my waist, and with a final heave, the corner of the lid bends back. Presto, some progress. From what I can see, the safe is packed to the top. The lock is a simple tumbler with a hook latch. Letting the lid lie, I use the fork to poke around at the hook, unhinging it.
Treasure. Lust of the adventurer. All walks of life have traveled great distances for things such as this. Lost to society. Waiting to be found. Often, never to be. Though it will not be known, I count myself amongst those triumphant in discovery. Resting peacefully on top is a cardboard tortoise shell case. Inside are ten one-ounce tincture bottles filled with a clear liquid. Underneath is a binder, whose pages I quickly fan through, only to be taken in by the five bands of two thousand dollars at the bottom of the safe.
“Ten minutes,” says my watch, “you’re out fifty grand.”
“No, most people take the onetime payout over the lifetime guarantee.”
Six grand gets stuffed in my inner coat pockets, the binder down the front of my pants, four grand laid on the cover of the case, and I emerge with my findings to see Abra Cabbie behind the driver’s door with a hand on the roof of their cab.
“Fifty-one thousand, two hundred!” They shout.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That was the deal!”
“I didn’t agree to that… Now look, I’ve got four grand here. It’s real. It’s yours. Or you can contact my office in Pittsburgh and receive payments over the course of your life. Be reasonable. You didn’t even think I’d come up with this. You could take two weeks off.”
“Give that four grand, and I’ll contact your office for the rest.”
“You like magic, yeah? I can make this four grand disappear!”
“Alright! Greed’s a sin. I get it. Tough times, y’know. I could use the money.”
“Spare me.”
“What’s in the box?”
“Small bottles. I have to destroy them.”
Tucking the four grand under my arm, I take a single tincture bottle and store it in my breast pocket, then toss the case as far as I can, scattering bottles throughout the wilderness. Abra Cabbie gets their four grand. Everyone’s happy. In the back seat, I take the binder in hand, turning to the first page as Abra Cabbie asks me where to go.
“Where we came from,” I say.
Abra Cabbie mumbles to themselves while I scan the first page, and as they maneuver a k-turn, I read:
‘Subject: Project MKULTRA, subproject WALRUS’
“Stop the car!” I shout.
“What is it now!?”
“Just stop the goddamn car!” Banging on the back of their seat.
It comes to a halt and before Abra Cabbie can turn to give me their sullen stare, I barrel out into the wild. A blind toss! Thoughtless crime! Dosing the Earth with psychedelic gold! Where could they be?! Nine tinctures. A lifetime supply. Where could they be?!?! Ruffage. Rocks. Hollowed out trunks. It’s a game of spot the difference in the Appalachian Forest, where everything looks the same. This was the direction… or was it this way? A savage crunch underfoot tells me I’m on the right path. Shattered glass. Seepage for the worms. What will either poison them or make them self-aware. Goddamn bottle was worth more than a thousand nights in Tangier. Light steps and a keen eye. No rummaging. One false move and you’ll have to be pumped full of steroids. Weeping sores of the ivy variety. Remember, you’re cursed to be allergic to the poison.
There!! A single bottle at the base of a tree. Sweet salvation, it’s unharmed! With this in hand, I may explore the ways of perception, and through those doors will appear the infinite. A drop on the tongue makes the ghoulies go away. Now, where are the others? Seven remarkable tinctures. I scrounge around while an incredible lightness accompanies the breeze. Then I think of what Abra Cabbie said. ‘Greed’s a sin.’ Much too simple for me, hints of archaic justice from a dead tongue raging against oppression. I prefer the words of a prospector who carved into the Sierra Madre. ‘When the piles of gold begin to grow… that’s when the trouble starts.’ Sad day. I assure you, it’ll be here, in less pressing times, where I may return to rediscover my calling, and if I am to fail to find what I am searching for, I will remain until I do. ’Til death do us part.
Abra Cabbie is none too happy about having to wait, and to get them to shut up, I give them another thousand. Naturally, they wonder how much closer they can come to the tremendous total of fifty grand, and I tell them that was the last of the money I found. Cracking the window to let the wind blow down on my face, I read the entire document over the course of the ride. Riveting manipulation. The stuff only a fifty’s G-man with nothing to lose could come up with. Not suitable for the public, I’m afraid. Though I told Abra Cabbie a few bits and bobs to keep them at bay. Always the polite gentleman. Terrified of confrontation. Terrified of awkwardness, which precedes me.
When we arrive at the nursing home, I bid Abra Cabbie farewell.
“If ever the day comes where you perform feats of strength in your magic act, let me know. I’d love to be there for the punch to the gut trick.”
They enthusiastically agree and ask for my office address, which I provide, fully expecting the management consultancy of Ernst & Young to receive an invoice of forty-seven thousand dollars. If only Abra Cabbie knew, it is beyond all considerable reason that a private investigator could afford an office in PPG Place. What a pity. I step out, and before I can truly send them on their way, someone calls for me to hold the cab.
“No cab! Off-duty!” Shouts Abra Cabbie, throwing it in drive and peeling off into the sunset.
Look who it is, he who calls. It’s Beaumont. Less than welcoming this time around. He displays an odd grimace as he approaches me.
“Who’s Lewis Wynn?” asks Beaumont.
I retrieve the inciting letter from my coat pocket and with it turned to the sky, I say, “He’s the man who sent your man this.”
“How did you — ”
How did I… what? Get ahold of the letter in your left breast pocket?”
A quick tap on his chest, he splays his jacket open, and from his left breast pocket he produces an identical letter. Near identical.
“Mr. Haydn, you’ve affirmed my suspicions. May I see your letter?”
“Can I see yours?”
“They read, ‘bring me the safe’, signed with a sideways pitchfork head or trident. Sign of the carpenters. I tricked you once. I wouldn’t trick you again. It’s just a matter of comparison.”
He concedes with a sigh, and at my side, he opens his letter next to mine. Squiggly symbols. Good lord, it’s struck. Makes it difficult to distinguish handwriting. Though the smudges form their own unique patterns, and that’s proof enough for me.
I say, to the best of my abilities, “You see how mine has smeared lettering and yours is a perfect print. Lewis rushed to write this one. He hadn’t fully realized his plan until after your man contacted you.”
“If Lewis knew my guy was going to hire me, why didn’t he hire me himself?”
“He didn’t know you in particular. He just knew someone would be. Your man can’t go anywhere, can he?”
“No.”
“Neither can Lewis. I’m his insurance, in case you can’t find what he’s looking for.”
“You found it?!”
I take the other half of the two thousand band I split for Abra Cabbie, and hand it over to Beaumont.
“What’s this for?” asks Beaumont.
“I’d like to handle this myself, if you don’t mind?”
“Are you even licensed in Virginia?”
Not exactly, though I tried my damnedest. I’m hardly a card carrier in Pennsylvania, teetering on the brink of expulsion. However, where there’s a challenge, there’s always a solution. I show Beaumont my license, an exact copy, Virginia and all, and had he just asked to feel the license, he’d have noticed it is slightly lighter than the official card stock.
“I’m licensed in forty-six states,” I lie, “those which require it, and I have business licenses in Alaska. Not that I get up there often.”
“Impressive, detective. Sounds like you’ve got your bases covered.”
“I try my best, detective. Why don’t you stick around? I won’t be long. Then afterwards, we can get something to eat… I’ll tell you all about it.”
Beaumont looks at the thousand in his hand and says, “Why the hell not?”
Little has changed in the nursing home, other than my grandmother abandoning her post as fearsome greeter, and the fishbowl being filled and supplied with aquatic life. I sign in for the benefit of no one, and glance over to a previous entry, ‘Sterling Felton, Beaumont Haydn, 3:27.’ Passing Mr. Wynn’s room, I peruse the others in search of Mr. Felton, and find he occupies room 117. A shut door. Best not intrude. In the doorway to 106, I see Wynn hasn’t moved an inch. He is fortunate enough to have company in the birds, who feast on a fresh suet block. One step in and Lewis pivots.
“Give me the bottle!” He says firmly.
From my breast pocket, I remove the bottle and gladly hand it to him.
“Did you read the document?” He asks.
I take the binder from my waistline, and say, “No… I figured that’d be a breach of national security.”
“You retrieving this is a breach of national security. But as long as you get that back to Langley, I’ll look passed it.”
“What’s in the bottle?”
“Medicine, nothing that would interest you.”
“Any concoction left in the woods for sixty years wouldn’t interest me.”
“It’s sealed airtight. No contaminates. No spoilage.”
“So, you plan on using it?”
“Don’t worry about what I’m going to do. You got what you wanted, yes?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What is it then? You got your money. I don’t have more to give you.”
“An explanation would be nice.”
“You read the document,” he declares.
I say nothing, a poor attempt to conceal guilt, and Lewis unscrews the top on the tincture. He sets the dropper aside, and in one swift move, he knocks back the entire bottle.
“Good lord!” I exclaim.
“What did I do?” He asks, knowing full well.
“You’ve signed your death warrant.”
“How so?”
“You drank about two hundred and eighty thousand doses of LSD!”
“Then what explanation do you need? You know everything.”
“Forget about that, man! You gotta get to a hospital!”
“I’m not going anywhere until I go mad. No one’s ever taken a fatal dose of this, and if someone’s going to find out if that’s even possible, it’ll be me. I don’t think I’ll die. I’ll go mad, but I won’t die.”
“What’s the endgame here?!”
“I’d be out of this place, of course. Institutionalized with the other mad bastards like me.”
“That was the plan?! I’m an accessory to madness?”
“You’re nothing more than a delivery boy, returning state secrets to their rightful home.”
“So, tell me why this document is important?”
“It’s what worked. All the projects we worked on were bunk, except that one. Getting in on the ground floor. Gaining the trust of ordinary people seeking ordinary house work. Dosing them and convincing them to make decisions they wouldn’t otherwise make. It could still work, and while they declassified the major project, and paid out settlements, that document remains. It belongs in Langley.”
“I really think you should go to a hospital.”
“You tell a nurse and I’ll have so much dirt on you, you’d think you were dead. This is the last time I’m going to tell you, get that document to Langley… mail it, walk up to the fucking front desk and hand it to the receptionist! Whatever you want to do! Just get it there!”
Fearing Lewis may leap out of his chair and throttle my throat, I say, “you got it,” and, “thanks for everything,” and cut it short, stepping out with the door shutting close behind. Harrowing escape. What a sourpuss. How much sourer can a tart be, I wonder? There’s only one way to find out.
I walk to room 117 and slide the document under the door, knocking three times soon after. Then leave it there, exiting the nursing home for good.
The walls take a breath and exhale into the sky, where a grid aligns each cloud into quadrants. Urban life is conducive to spectacular sights. To cope, I light a cigarette. Beaumont flags me down from the curb, and though I’m in no state for food, I ask him where there’s a good place to eat in town.
