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| cottonbro studio |
Going Out
Billie’s patience fractured. “Get out of my room, you mealy-mouthed twit.”
Alfred R. Moorhead, M.D., was indeed a mealy-mouthed twit, but because no one had ever called him one to his face, the words startled him, triggering a faint squint and a slight parting of his lips.
“Um, Mrs. Wicker,” he said, struggling to sheathe his pen in his new pocket protector. “Perhaps I should come back after you’ve had time to collect your thoughts so that we can discuss this further.”
Billie Wicker’s temper, voice, and pulse rate rose in tandem. “I said, get out, you big oaf.”
Dr. Moorhead had been called a big oaf twice, once by his ex-wife and once by a bulky, red-faced man driving a pick-up who suggested, as he sped around the doctor’s Audi S5 Cabriolet convertible, that the big oaf needed driving lessons.
“Mrs. Wicker, I understand that this is difficult news to bear.” He tried to remain even and professional, although the tension in his voice and his stiffly nodding head betrayed him. Dr. Moorhead nodded perpetually.
“Just leave, you pill-pushing, prickly-faced son of a stink bug.” Her voice was like chipped teeth – brittle, ragged, but capable of quite a bite. One look at Wilma Wicker’s fiery eyes helped Dr. Moorhead summon the courage to concede defeat, close his mouth, and leave the room. Billie ushered him on his way with a big raspberry, then spent the next few moments recuperating from the outburst.
“Is it safe to come out?” The wispy, wavering voice belonged to Billie’s roommate, Clara Munson. Clara was in the bathroom when Dr. Moorhead arrived, full of a condescending prognosis. Once the fireworks started, she thought it best to remain there. “Is Dr. Bobblehead gone?”
“Yes, Clara.”
Clara shuffled over to her bed and hoisted herself up so that she balanced on the edge, her spindly legs dangling, her feet a good foot off the floor. She weighed barely 85 pounds. With a full head of soft, white hair and fluffy snow-white slippers, she bore more than a passing resemblance to a cotton swab.
Still stewing over Dr. Moorhead’s visit, Billie growled toward the door and spat one last reference to the good doctor. “Festering boil of a quack.”
“I’m so sorry, Billie,” Clara whispered.
The two sat quietly. Billie hurled a menacing glance toward the wall clock; its relentless ticking was like a time bomb counting down to the inevitable, now-impending end.
Billie set her jaw, slowly rose to her feet, and marched to the tiny closet opposite her bed. She extracted a pair of navy blue sweatpants, a pastel pink sweatshirt proclaiming, “Virginia is for Lovers,” and running shoes. A twitch of a smile crossed her face. Running shoes – Perfect, she thought. Clara tilted her head daintily as she watched Billie and tried to process this departure from routine. “Where are you going, Billie?”
“Out,” came the unadorned reply. Billie finished fastening the Velcro closures on her shoes and locked onto her friend’s gaze before proffering the invitation. “You wanna come along?”
Clara’s heart started to race. She began a silent clap with her hands, and her watery, pale eyes widened with anxious excitement. “I’ll get my shoes,” she chirped as she hopped off the bed and skittered toward her closet.
Between them, Billie and Clara had lived for 170 years and had been married and widowed three times. Clara’s only child died in an automobile accident when he was in college. Billie’s three step-children from her second marriage abandoned her two decades ago following the death of their father. Neither woman ever imagined winding up in a place like Cottage Gardens, but age and circumstance whittled away at their autonomy, leaving them few options. Adjustment followed resignation.
The two octogenarians were strangers when flooding from a burst pipe temporarily rendered their private suites uninhabitable and thrust them together in room 117-East until cleanup and repairs could be completed. They coexisted awkwardly but politely, a mismatched pair of socks. The night before they were to return to their newly renovated private quarters, Clara developed a sudden, unexplained fever. Nurses, CNAs, and the on-call physician swarmed around her bed every few hours, buzzing in medicalese, scratching notes on charts, administering tests and meds. When the staff departed, Billie sat holding Clara’s delicate hand and quietly shared stories from her travels in Europe as a young woman. She described in vivid detail quaint shops and village markets, towering cathedrals and hilltop castles, breathtaking landscapes and luminescent city skylines. When Clara’s fever vanished as unexpectedly as it had appeared, she and Billie opted to continue as roommates and returned to their daily activities as comrades and allies.
Visits from friends and the odd niece or nephew, once frequent and festive, were now rare and perfunctory. Billie and Clara amused themselves by creating nicknames for the members of the Cottage Gardens workforce. In addition to Dr. Bobblehead, others regularly prowling the ward included Yolanda of the Yukon – the nurse with cold hands, Typhoon Tilda – a CNA who constantly swirled in frantic circles, and an internist with a lazy eye, uncontrollable sprouts of kinky gray hair, and a laugh that sounded like machine gun fire, whom Billie dubbed Dr. Wack Ass. Over time, a congenial competition developed between the bunkmates to see who could generate the most far-fetched, scandalous anecdote about each staff member.
“Shhhh! I don’t want to get caught before we get started.” Billie rolled her eyes at Clara, who immediately slapped both hands over her mouth to stifle her giggling. A screeching door hinge broadcast their exit from the room, prompting a wince and a snarl from Billie. In a calm and measured voice, she directed Clara, “If anyone asks, tell them we are going to the library.”
“Right,” Clara agreed softly, barely able to control her exhilaration. “But where are we really going?”
“To the library.”
“…Oh...”
The two colluders crept into the corridor and began their expedition by inching westward as casually as they were able. They made a complete stop and looked both ways before turning onto the central concourse that separated the East and West wings. Typhoon Tilda burst out of the physical therapy room and whirled past them, then abruptly made a U-turn, became rigid, and stared at the pair. The girls froze and stared back. Tilda opened her mouth to speak, but inexplicably dismissed the idea, pivoted again, and churned onward.
Confused but relieved, the willful wanderers quickened their pace. They skirted past the dining hall and bypassed the vending machines and the custodial closet. By the time they rounded the bend at the deserted nurses’ station, they were speeding along at an impressive pace. A few yards shy of the library, Billie slammed on the brakes and grabbed Clara’s arm to halt her forward progress.
“What’s wrong, Billie?”
Noticeably winded from their jaunt, Billie paused to regulate her breathing before asking, “Do you hear that?”
Clara squinched up her face and listened. “Sounds like a party,” she replied. The muffled tones of a celebration emanated from the staff lounge farther down the hall. Billie beamed.
“That’s Bullwinkle’s retirement party. We’re in the clear.”
Billie would miss Bullwinkle, the lanky, good-natured nurse practitioner with a nose and ears too large for his head and a penchant for quoting classic cartoons. He could always cajole a laugh from her. And now, the affable moose’s send-off had emptied the hallway of potential roadblocks, allowing Billie and Clara to continue unnoticed on their journey. They strolled nonchalantly to the rear corner of the library before sitting in one of the reading nooks for a much-needed respite.
The library boasted the facility's most appealing architectural feature: two sets of Palladian windows stretching nearly floor to ceiling on either side of elegant French doors. The doors opened onto the sprawling, meticulously landscaped grounds that inspired Cottage Gardens’ name.
The considerable gardens stretched the length of the property, which sat atop a hill overlooking the town’s central square. Paved paths meandered through the expertly maintained trees, shrubberies, and abundant flowers. Wooden benches scattered along the paths offered residents and visitors a variety of tranquil locations for conversation, rest, or reflection. Among the other features of the outdoor retreat were a small fountain and a series of pebble mosaics designed and installed by art majors from the nearby university. Small bronze plaques purchased in memory of loved ones dotted the gardens. They served as lasting tributes to former residents while also providing the funds to preserve the picturesque grounds for current residents' enjoyment.
After a brief rest and a quick peek outside to ensure they could flee unseen, Billie and Clara crossed the threshold and slipped away into the gardens. When their adventure began, Billie intended to take back control of her morning and grab a small slice of freedom by escaping the building. Having accomplished that objective relatively easily, she now wanted something more.
Billie felt a surge of urgency, fueled by the understanding that she was unlikely to get another such opportunity. She moved with resolve as she led Clara through the lush maze, without stopping to appreciate the fragrant Piedmont azaleas, Royal Sunset climbing roses, or the delicate, sweetly aromatic lilies of the valley. Clara accepted Billie’s grave determination without questioning her friend’s purpose.
Upon reaching a whimsical butterfly mosaic composed of pastel-painted pebbles and outlined with small black stones, Billie turned to Clara and, with a sparkle in her eyes, instructed her partner in crime to “Get some flat ones.” Clara blinked rapidly, furrowed her brow, and muttered sotto voce, “Flat ones.” Overlooking Clara’s befuddlement, Billie commenced using the toe of her Reebok to rummage through the smoke-gray rocks surrounding the colorful winged image.
“Try to find smooth ones like this,” Billie said, holding up an example. Once Clara understood what to look for, she happily set about hunting for ‘smooth flat ones’ while remaining clueless about the point of the exercise.
The chiming of the clock tower in the downtown square reminded Billie that time placed unforgiving limits on their excursion. “We’ve got to keep moving,” she advised as she stowed a handful of rocks in the pocket of her sweatpants. Clara dropped her stones one by one into an empty Ziploc freezer bag she found, serendipitously, hiding in her pants pocket. After securing the bag’s zipper, she grasped it at the top with both hands and carried it in front of her as she followed Billie back onto the path.
Like trails of light emanating to and from the center of a starburst, the various winding paths reunited at a large, crystal-clear pond at the far end of the gardens. The duo arrived at the pond and stood at its edge, gazing at the placid water. For the first time since venturing outside, Billie raised her face skyward, soaking in the sun and filling her lungs with the cool, fresh, floral-scented air.
“Billie?”
“Yes, Clara.”
“What are the stones for?”
“Skipping.”
Flummoxed again, Clara’s eyes narrowed as she combed through her mind for any connection between stones and skipping. This time, Billie detected her bewilderment. “Didn’t you ever skip stones in your youth?”
“No,” Clara responded, “I grew up in Pittsburgh.”
Billie ignored the non sequitur to complete her mission in a timely fashion. “Well then, watch this,” she said as she extracted a stone from her pocket. She angled her body slightly to the right, focused her gaze, took aim, and with a side-armed motion whipped the smooth oval disk toward the water. Clara’s eyes ballooned, and her dimpled smile threatened to blast off from her brightly flushed face. Her short shrieks increased in intensity with each of the stone’s six skips across the glassy surface. As the ripples abated, Billie took a bow with a flourish of her arm, then feigned modesty as Clara clapped wildly. The master skipper stepped back and coaxed her fellow fugitive to, “Give it a try.”
Clara glowed and emitted a bubbly whinny in reply. Her hands quivered as she selected a rock from the baggie and tried to replicate Billie’s feat. When her granite disk plopped directly down into the pond, she instantly deflated. Billie consoled her companion and stepped in to coach the woebegone rookie hurler on her grip and release technique. Clara’s fourth attempt resulted in success – a three-skip throw. The celebration of high fives, whoops, and spirited congratulatory exclamations left both skippers breathless but radiating joy.
Billie bent slightly and placed her hand on a lattice-backed bench to steady herself as she eased onto the seat. Clara, still elated and clutching her baggie, perched on the other end of the bench. Motionless but for their breathing, they listened to the swishing sighs of the soft breeze teasing the leaves.
Billie’s mind drifted back to Dr. Moorhead’s visit. Fragments of distant voices and hazy images, the auditory and visual representations of the challenges she would soon face, began harassing her tranquility. Initial attempts to shake off the stinging sights and sounds failed. As the ferocity of the assault grew, she imagined herself a warrior slaying each assailant in the battle to protect this peaceful moment.
Clara’s voice broke in, vanquishing the enemy onslaught. “Do you think they’ll be cross when they find us?”
Billie snickered, “Let ‘em be cross. What are they going to do, send us to bed without any rice pudding?”
Clara contemplated that prospect before declaring with a titter, “You’re right; who cares if they’re cross? I don’t even like rice pudding.” Her titter swelled until it erupted with a snort that uncorked full-throated belly laughs from both runaways. They gave in to the wave of mirth, riding it until it rolled ashore and receded into a new stillness.
“Billie?”
“Hm?”
“Should we skip the rest of our stones before we run out of time?” “That’s exactly what we should do.” © Lori Erickson
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| Lori Erickson |
Lori Erickson is a retired theatre artist and educator whose short fiction has appeared in Still Point Arts Quarterly, January House Literary Journal, Ruben’s Quarterly, and The First Line Literary Journal. She lives in North Central Florida with her husband.
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