Read Online Irish Chain by Earlene Fowler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Earlene Fowler
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do is stick her feet in a milk bottle and wait for a wedding ring.” Relaxed, time-softened laughter rippled through the room.
I passed the nurses’ desk again, empty now, and couldn’t help but wonder about the security at Oak Terrace. What if someone suddenly became ill? It was a subject I should discuss with Mac, since his grandmother lived here. It seemed to me they should have someone around at all times, especially someone who could summon help in English. The community room revealed only one elderly lady with a Peter Pan haircut and two bulky hearing aids attached to her ears like small tan animals. “Never heard of’em,” she yelled to my question about Mr. O’Hara. Her eyes never left the green-tinted television turned to the show Love Connection .
The last room at the end of the south corridor made me smile. The masking tape down the middle of the door told the whole sordid story. Hearts made of red and pink construction paper and white paper doilies covered half of it; the other side was as bare as a newborn baby. I knocked on the closed door. Asking Oralee about Mr. O’Hara was probably taking my life in my hands, but maybe she had seen him wander by.
When there was no answer, I pushed it open.
“Oralee, have you . . . ?”
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.
The stench hit me first. Gamy, raw, suffocating. A body’s last attempt to clean itself out. The creature lay on the floor at the foot of the two beds, face swollen and suffused almost past recognition—a disgusting purplish color Crayola would never vote to include in their palette. Bulging eyes. As if someone was angry enough to squeeze them right out of his head. I recognized the tweed jacket and the gray wool slacks. Mr. O’Hara wouldn’t be wearing a crown tonight.
I froze, staring at his strangled body. Covering my nose and mouth with my hand, I swallowed convulsively and started backing out of the room. My shoulders hit something solid. I squealed in terror and swung around.
“Oh man, oh man,” Ramon said, his dark skin mottled reddish-brown with emotion. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
“Go get Gabe,” I said, giving him a shove. “Hurry.”
“I can’t leave you . . .”
“Someone has to get help. I’ll be fine. Now go! Quick!”
“Wait,” he said. “Benni, look.” My eyes followed his finger to where it was pointing. There was something on one of the beds. The one with the red and brown postage stamp quilt that had at first glance appeared lumpy, unmade. Something else.
Someone else.
“Stay back,” I commanded, then lifted the hem of my skirt and stepped over Mr. O’Hara’s legs to reach the side of the bed, kicking a pillow that had fallen on the floor. Miss Violet stared up at me, her eyes as flat as the glass beads she always wore. The sour, greasy taste of the french fries I’d eaten that afternoon crawled up the back of my throat.
“Miss Violet,” I said, trying to stave off the hysteria I felt bubbling up along with the french fries. I shook her gently. No response. I shook harder. “Please, Miss Violet.” Her arm fell out from under the bedspread. Knowing I should check for a pulse, that she might still be alive, I reached down and took her cool delicate wrist in my fingers, praying for a fluttering, a movement. Feeling nothing, I jerked back and stumbled over Mr. O’Hara’s legs in my haste to get out into the hall. Ramon stood dumbly waiting for me to speak.
“I told you to go get Gabe. Now go!”
He gave me a hesitant look, then sprinted down the hallway toward the exit.
I leaned against the doorjamb and sucked in deep breaths, wondering if it was smart to stay there. But common sense told me that most likely whoever did this had long gone, and I didn’t want any of Oak Terrace’s residents to wander by and accidentally look in. I eased out into the hallway and braced myself against the wall. Gold stars sparkled in front of my eyes, and fear caused my mouth to dry
I passed the nurses’ desk again, empty now, and couldn’t help but wonder about the security at Oak Terrace. What if someone suddenly became ill? It was a subject I should discuss with Mac, since his grandmother lived here. It seemed to me they should have someone around at all times, especially someone who could summon help in English. The community room revealed only one elderly lady with a Peter Pan haircut and two bulky hearing aids attached to her ears like small tan animals. “Never heard of’em,” she yelled to my question about Mr. O’Hara. Her eyes never left the green-tinted television turned to the show Love Connection .
The last room at the end of the south corridor made me smile. The masking tape down the middle of the door told the whole sordid story. Hearts made of red and pink construction paper and white paper doilies covered half of it; the other side was as bare as a newborn baby. I knocked on the closed door. Asking Oralee about Mr. O’Hara was probably taking my life in my hands, but maybe she had seen him wander by.
When there was no answer, I pushed it open.
“Oralee, have you . . . ?”
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.
The stench hit me first. Gamy, raw, suffocating. A body’s last attempt to clean itself out. The creature lay on the floor at the foot of the two beds, face swollen and suffused almost past recognition—a disgusting purplish color Crayola would never vote to include in their palette. Bulging eyes. As if someone was angry enough to squeeze them right out of his head. I recognized the tweed jacket and the gray wool slacks. Mr. O’Hara wouldn’t be wearing a crown tonight.
I froze, staring at his strangled body. Covering my nose and mouth with my hand, I swallowed convulsively and started backing out of the room. My shoulders hit something solid. I squealed in terror and swung around.
“Oh man, oh man,” Ramon said, his dark skin mottled reddish-brown with emotion. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
“Go get Gabe,” I said, giving him a shove. “Hurry.”
“I can’t leave you . . .”
“Someone has to get help. I’ll be fine. Now go! Quick!”
“Wait,” he said. “Benni, look.” My eyes followed his finger to where it was pointing. There was something on one of the beds. The one with the red and brown postage stamp quilt that had at first glance appeared lumpy, unmade. Something else.
Someone else.
“Stay back,” I commanded, then lifted the hem of my skirt and stepped over Mr. O’Hara’s legs to reach the side of the bed, kicking a pillow that had fallen on the floor. Miss Violet stared up at me, her eyes as flat as the glass beads she always wore. The sour, greasy taste of the french fries I’d eaten that afternoon crawled up the back of my throat.
“Miss Violet,” I said, trying to stave off the hysteria I felt bubbling up along with the french fries. I shook her gently. No response. I shook harder. “Please, Miss Violet.” Her arm fell out from under the bedspread. Knowing I should check for a pulse, that she might still be alive, I reached down and took her cool delicate wrist in my fingers, praying for a fluttering, a movement. Feeling nothing, I jerked back and stumbled over Mr. O’Hara’s legs in my haste to get out into the hall. Ramon stood dumbly waiting for me to speak.
“I told you to go get Gabe. Now go!”
He gave me a hesitant look, then sprinted down the hallway toward the exit.
I leaned against the doorjamb and sucked in deep breaths, wondering if it was smart to stay there. But common sense told me that most likely whoever did this had long gone, and I didn’t want any of Oak Terrace’s residents to wander by and accidentally look in. I eased out into the hallway and braced myself against the wall. Gold stars sparkled in front of my eyes, and fear caused my mouth to dry
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