Page 47

Poet rolled her eyes. “The damn car is still warm, there’s empty cartons of eggs on the passenger seat, and you’re the only one ’round here who makes it known that you hate my guts.

I don’t have to be Adrian Monk to crack this case.

Look how late it is? Who else would be here, this time of night, in the middle of nowhere, just to throw some damn eggs?

And do you know how expensive eggs are right now?

! You don’t have any chickens, so it’s safe to assume you get ’em from the grocery store.

What a waste of money. You could’ve used that cash to buy yourself some business to mind. ”

Melba bristled up and looked her squarely in the eye, then crossed her arms.

“I didn’t do it!”

“Not only are you annoying as hell, but you’re also a liar.

I don’t know if it’s because your old friend used to live there and you don’t like what I’ve done with the place, or you think I took something of yours, or what, but I’ve had enough!

Ever since I bought that house and that land, and started renovations, you’ve been nothin’ but trouble.

I don’t bother nobody! I keep to myself, Melba!

I work hard—I mind my business. I keep my property up.

Even though you like to come over and talk about vermin and weeds.

Those cats aren’t mine, but I take care of them, so they stick around.

God’s furry creatures, even the ones we don’t like, deserve kindness.

It’s none of your business. They’re not botherin’ you until you come onto my property.

I don’t talk about your five million birdhouses you’ve placed all over the place, and the subsequent bird shit that lands on my car and truck.

Now, at first I entertained you. I was nice, figuring you meant well.

I see that was a mistake. I let you off easy by just lettin’ the cats chase you away these last few times.

Honestly, I coulda shot your ass.” Melba’s eyes grew large.

“That’s right. I would’ve been well within my rights after you kept trespassing and threatening me.

Makin’ up laws like we’ve got an HOA out here.

Now you’ve egged my house and the new greenhouse I had built, too.

That’s going to take supplies, time and effort to clean up.

You bring yo’ ass over to my house right now and scrub it off, or I’m callin’ the police.

That’s it. I’ve had it!” Poet sniffed. Her nostrils felt itchy.

A strange, medicinal odor permeated from Melba’s home.

As she stood there with the door cracked, Poet caught a whiff of it.

It smelled just like the hospital she took Huni to a few times, for her occasional episodes—reminded her of wet Band-Aids, antiseptic soap, and rubbing alcohol.

She turned back towards Melba, who looked rather startled at her threat…

and scared, too. Was the woman suffering from bouts of dementia like Huni?

What would make her do such a thing? It didn’t quite make sense.

Poet suddenly heard someone coughing, then clearing their throat from inside the house.

“Who is that?” She moved closer to the door.

“…My husband,” Melba mumbled, her voice barely audible.

The man started coughing again, this time, much louder.

“Meeeelba!” he shouted. “Gotdamnit! Where’s my suit and tie, you bitch!”

The color drained from Melba’s face, and she began to shake ever so slightly. She looked away from the door, in the direction of the voice.

“Melba, you rotten, stupid cunt! Find, and iron my suit. I gotta go to Mama’s funeral today!” Suddenly, something crashed and broke.

Melba went to close the door in her face, but Poet placed her hand on it, pushing it in the opposite direction, forcing it open. Melba grunted, trying all the harder, but Poet pushed harder.

“Melba, are you okay? What’s going on?”

Melba’s eyes watered. “Go on now! Go home! I’ll clean your house in the mornin’ if ya want, just please leave, Poet!”

“I’m not going any where until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“This don’t concern you.”

Poet pushed past her and entered the house.

She winced at the scent, which was even stronger now.

She picked up on the strong odor of urine now, too.

As her eyes adjusted in the poor light, she saw an old, shriveled man lying on a long brown couch.

He was rather thin, emaciated really, and pale as a ghost. Wisps of gray and brown hair grew from his half bald head.

A tube was inserted in his nostrils, and an oxygen tank sat beside him.

With gloomy eyes that looked like globs of blue snot, the man glared at her—darkness in his expression, stains all over his white shirt.

“You that nigger that killed my mama. Yeah, I’d recognize you from anywhere! My daddy is gonna get you! Hang you good!” He pointed a long, twisted finger at her.

Melba gasped and placed both hands over her mouth.

“Oh, Poem, I mean Poet, he don’t mean it! He’s gone soft in the head! His mama died back in 1981, and his daddy been dead a long time, too. He’s not in his right mind.”

“My mama was alive this mornin’! My mama’s funeral is today! This bitch killed her!” He pointed at Poet once again.

“Clyde, don’t talk like that! That’s awful. This here is our neighbor. You know the one. She ain’t hurt Mama Meredith. Apologize!”

The old man adjusted his position, sitting up straighter.

He placed his age-spotted hands along his knees and glared at both of them now.

Then, he leaned forward as if he had something really important to say.

That was when she noticed a set of keys to his left.

Sitting there about to fall in the crack of the cushion.

“Yo’ name is Betty Wright, and you killed my mama, you nigger!

I hate you spooks! You ruined this country with your welfare and stealin’.

Always wanting somethin’ for nothin’! My mama…

my poor mama!” The man moaned as if he was about to start crying, then he turned mean on a dime.

“GET OUTTA HERE!” He stood to his feet, and his oversized pants fell down.

He was clad in a lumpy adult diaper, and the odor of shit now occupied the air, too.

White socks were pulled up to his knobby knees, and his thighs were covered in knotted blue veins.

He looked slightly hunched over and every time he moved, his arms would sway in a creepy, unnatural way.

“LEAVE! I’ll beat your ass, you Black beast! You need to be whipped! I said, get out, Betty! I’mma tell Gertrude ’bout you stealin’ her fine China!”

Poet stumbled back, feeling dizzy from the words being hurled her way, the sounds of the television on low, the odors of all of his medicines that sat on a card table by his side, peeling and stained bird illustrated wallpaper, and the stench of mildew pouring from somewhere in the house, too.

“Poet, I’m so sorry!” Melba apologized once again, grabbing at her hand like some desperate child in need of a way out.

That’s when she saw them. An assortment of old and new nasty bruises all over the woman’s wrists, chest and legs.

Purple, brown, red and yellow… big and small ones.

Cuts and scars, too. Usually, Melba was covered up when she came to the house to start her antics, but her robe had flung open during all the ruckus, exposing everything that her little cream nightgown didn’t cover.

“Melba…”

“He doesn’t know what he’s sayin’ or doin’!

He’s sick.” The woman’s eyes pleaded even more than her mouth.

They were sad, and tired, sheening with unspent tears.

“I’ve been takin’ care of him, ya see? And he just says things.

He don’t mean nothin’ by it!” The woman was rambling on, but then she stopped mid-sentence and suddenly fell to the floor.

The old man had hurled those keys like a professional baseball pitcher, and they hit Melba hard on the side of the head.

“Oh my God!” Poet scooped the woman from the floor, lifting her into her arms. Melba was dead weight—like a rag doll. Blood pooled on the side of the woman’s head, and her eyes were rolling about as she groaned.

She dragged Melba over to a nearby chair, and set her down in it so she could call 911.

The old man stood there for a bit, unsteady on his feet, his eyes trained on Melba.

A confused expression stretched across his face.

Then he grimaced, as if he were just realizing once again that Poet was in his house.

“Who are you? GET OUT, NIGGER!”

He reached for something by the side of the couch, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Taking a few steps closer to him, she watched him trying to grasp what looked to be a bucket filled with sullied rags.

All of her tension, rage, and sadness drained from her body, and she went into attack mode.

She raced toward him at full speed, and snatched the handle from his fingers.

Throwing it across the room, she shoved him down on the couch, pressing her weight into him.

The old man looked up at her with his overcast, cataract-covered blue eyes.

His thin, pale lips parted, showing small, uneven, yellowed teeth.

Drool shone along his stubble-covered chin.

A vile expression crossed his face, like that of a demon.

He worked his lips, and she realized he was trying to spit on her, but having trouble since he was lying on his back.

Grabbing a food tray that was lying on the adjacent coffee table, she put it up to his face before he could complete the task.

A small sputtering of saliva landed on the tray.

She tossed the damn thing to the floor, then covered his mouth tight with her hand as she leaned down close to his decrepit face.

“You sick, stinking, nasty son of a bitch,” she said between gritted teeth.

“It was you at my house tonight. You had enough gumption to drive yo’ ass down the road and throw eggs.

Now you wanna pretend to be all frail and helpless.

I saw what you did to your wife…” His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you throw one more gotdamn thing, or I’m going to throw YOU ! YOU HEAR ME?!”

He just looked up at her, that tube in his nose, his eyes now wild and crazy.

“You might be sick, but you know exactly what you’re sayin’.

That vile, ungodly vocabulary has always been in you, and I know you been beating this woman for years, too.

You’re a coward! A racist, disgusting, nauseating, yellow-bellied chicken!

DON’T YOU DARE HIT THIS WOMAN ONE MORE MOTHAFUCKIN’ TIME!

Don’t you touch her, or so help me God, I will skin you down to the bone, rip all of your organs out, pluck your eyes from the sockets with my bare hands and turn yo’ ass into a human mannequin for our Old Stone Age Paleolithic Era caveman display! ”

Poet felt like she was having an out of body experience. Her distress rushed to the forefront; her blood ran cold then hot all over. Her nerves were on fire! The world was spinning far too fast as her anger poured out like hot lava.

“That woman you married, she’s been taking care of you when she’s barely well herself, and you’re using your sickness to keep on fuckin’ wit’ her.

To hurt her! I know a performance when I see one.

You ain’t slick, fool. Now you listen here.

I’m gonna tend to your wife. If you get up from this here couch, I’m gonna get my shotgun, it’s right there yonder, and do the unthinkable…

You think I killed yo’ mama, you shriveled up pasty worm? I’mma kill you next!”

The ancient half-dead corpse look alike said nothing—just looked up at her with incredulous eyes, as if frozen in time.

It was more than apparent that poor Melba was doing everything she could to have an excuse to get out of that hellish house, to try and connect with someone, any one, so she could feel normal—even if it meant being scratched by feral cats and chased off a farm.

She had poor social skills. Didn’t know how to talk to folks much, so she made a ruckus.

All so she’d have someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t strike her and beat her down.

She must’ve felt mighty lonely when her friend had to be put in a nursin’ home, and the house I’m in afterwards went up for sale. Damn.

She glanced over at Melba who was blinking, and still looking out of it.

Poet raced around, trying to figure out where the woman’s kitchen was.

She finally found it. The floors were sticky, the sink full of dishes, and the trash toppling over.

She navigated the mess, made her way to the refrigerator, and opened the freezer, which was packed with too many frozen meals to count.

Most of them were covered in so much ice, they were certainly frost-burned.

She weeded through them, found a bag of frozen peas, and placed it against Melba’s head.

Melba’s eyes fluttered once again, then began to close.

“No, Melba, stay with me. Stay awake, now. Don’t fall asleep, baby.” With Melba leaning against her shoulder, Poet slipped her phone out from her pants pocket and dialed the police.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance over here, fast.” Her mouth felt dry, but she worked past that.

“My name is Poet Constantine. My neighbor, Melba Johnson, who’s elderly, got hit pretty hard in the head with a big set of metal keys, and now she’s bleeding from the temple.

I’m concerned she might have a concussion.

She’s havin’ trouble focusing, speakin’, and stayin’ awake. Please hurry.”

“Ma’am, do you know how she was injured? Was she assaulted?”

“Yes. Her husband, Clyde Johnson, is also in need of medical care. He’s the one that assaulted her, I saw him do it. He appears to be sufferin’ from either dementia or Alzheimer’s, and seems to have many other health complications.”

The rest of the time was spent giving the address, answering basic questions, and waiting. Lifting Melba up from her slumped position, she placed her on her lap. Poet rubbed the poor old woman’s back, nice and gentle, and spoke close to her ear.

“Stay awake, Melba. Don’t fall asleep, honey. Help is on its way…”