The Great Escapee Series

Chapter 10

Ten

The next morning, Clarence tapped on the chicken wire enclosure of the aviary in the entrance of Hillcrest Homes. "They had to remodel the finches' house for you, didn't they?"

The hawk dominated the cage. Massive. Its tail feathers caught on the wire floor, curling. Even though its wings were tucked, they still commanded the space. Beady eyes stared at Clarence. Talons gripped a branch too big for finches. "I'm sure those silly birds don't mind loaning it to you for a while."

Miss Henningway walked up to the temporary birdcage positioned beside the aviary. Red, yellow, brown and green finches fluttered around a lone blue and white speckled parakeet. The tiny birds pecked at the larger bird. Their wings flapped against its head and body.

She clucked at them. "Poor little birdies. Sweet things." She studied the aviary, then the birdcage. "Did that big old mean bird take your pretty cage?" Cluck, cluck.

The hawk quaked and suddenly spread its wings, rocking the aviary.

Clarence jumped back. "Your wing! It's ... it's—"

"Eek!" Miss Henningway stumbled.

Clarence rushed to keep her upright. She might be the enemy, but he couldn't let her fall.

She swooned against him. Her eyeglasses magnified fluttering eyes. She clutched at his arms.

He shoved her upright and pushed her away.

"Humph. You are rude ... " She clamped her bright red lips shut and stomped away.

"I know how you feel, old boy," Clarence said. Every possible escape route had been patched. Not that a hawk could squeeze through any, but the finches had tried a few. "That's what you get for breaking into my room."

Old Harold Dexter shuffled into view. "Talking to birds now I see. Next it'll be the dog in the dining room."

"There's a dog in the dining room?"

"Naw. Just wanted to see if you were listening."

Clarence growled. He waited for Harold to mosey on down the hall. "Looks like your wing is healing already. Pretty fast. You ought to be outa here in ... I oughta be out of here ... in ... "

The bird stared.

Clarence stared back. He looked behind him, then back to the hawk. "Me, too." He clicked on the wire with his nail. "Cohorts in crime." Tap, tap. "They'll throw you out, just like the prison threw me out."

Tap, tap, tap. A nurse in the nurses station was busy charting or whatever. Another walked away from him, down the hall. She disappeared into a room. "How are you this morning, Mrs. Albertson?" A very loud voice. The door closed.

That hall was empty. He slowly rotated to another. Quiet. A body lift stood at the end of the hall. The exit was far away. He slipped past the wheelchair rows, all facing the TV.

The woman in the nurses station hadn't moved from the desk.

His eyes focused on the exit and he started shuffling toward it.

Just before the exit, a door opened and a big black woman entered the hallway. She had to weigh three hundred pounds. "Sho your family'll be here Saturday. It's yo birthday fo pete's sake."

He stepped closer.

Her hand was on the door jamb, her eyes never left Clarence's face. Someone answered from inside the room, but he couldn't hear what was said. The black woman answered. "They be here this year fo sure. It ain't everyday a person turns ninety. Punch yo call light if you needs me."

Closer. He glanced at the exit. Shuffle. Shuffle.

The woman leaned against the wall, her arms folded across her ample chest. Her hair was tied in those dread things and gathered in a big bun at the back of her head, only some stuck out behind. Her bright blue uniform had little yellow ducks all over it; on that big of a uniform, that was a lot of ducks. She fiddled with a stethoscope hanging around her neck as he walked closer. Her eyes focused on him.

"Hey, Mr. Timmelsen. How's it goin'?"

"Name's Clarence. I'm just taking the tour. Getting some exercise." He raised one knee, then the other. "I'm used to a specialized gym workout."

"Uh-huh. You get all settled in didyanow?"

"Sure." He reached the end of the hallway—right next to the exit door. Was she ever going to get back to work? He could almost smell the spring air.

Her radio went off. "Well, Mr. Clarence, have yoself a good day and let us know if we can be of hep to you." She checked the radio and moseyed on down the hall. Just as Clarence was going to push the door open, she turned. "Goin' to get some air?"

"Uh. Just looking outside." He faced the door and pointed against the glass. "You have a nice little garden."

Her radio beeped again. "We sho do. Gotta run. Mrs. Hatly is persistent today."

She turned the corner and Clarence pushed the door open, slipping out into the sunshine. He stood tucked next to the exit, in the space between the door and a window, leaning against the building. He paused there for a minute and breathed in the fresh air. The birds chattered and squirrels chased each other around tree trunks.

As soon as the door closed, he hustled to the closest tree. Then to another. He hid behind the sign proclaiming Hillcrest Homes. Across the street and into the park.

F-r-e-e-d-o-m.

An hour later, Clarence stood on the sidewalk outside a grocery store. He peeped in, shuffling side-to-side, trying to spy between flyers taped to the inside of the glass. He leaned back and checked out the exterior: white paint peeled from old red bricks, a frayed awning flapped in the wind over the entry door. A sign with faded letters swayed slightly askew overhead—The Olde Towne Market.

He cupped his eyes with his hands and peered inside again, leaning against the glass. Lights on. The radio blared the newest canned music from an outside speaker. Country twang.

A slender woman wearing a white shirt, too-tight jeans and a green-and-white-striped necktie clomped toward the front door. Clarence caught the word Manager on her name tag but couldn't read her name. She stuck a single cigarette in her shirt pocket, her hand on the door.

Oh-oh. She glanced his way. He spun around to avoid being seen.

Wait. No one was onto him here. He was a customer, just like that guy inside the store, pushing a cart full of baby food and diapers.

Clarence stepped close to the glass again, eyed the ads taped haphazardly to the glass and pretended to scan them carefully. "Oh, look. Here's an ad for puppies. Six weeks old, had their shots," he read. "Aww, cute little things." Someone bumped into him. He nodded at a pretty young woman heading up the sidewalk toward the store entrance, and he tapped the glass. She smiled at him. "I should have my shots," he muttered. He pointed to the phone number fringe at the bottom. "I need to get one of those." He tilted his head. "402-572-1224. Gotta call or they'll be gone."

The woman glanced at him and entered the store, letting the door close behind her.

He stretched to read another ad higher up, letting his eyes fall to the manager inside. Now she stood pointing toward him, jaws jabberwalking to another white-shirted employee—a tall young male. He tied a green apron low on his hips.

Clarence rotated a quarter turn, toward the cars in the parking lot, jingling coins in his pocket. He turned toward the store.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the manager and employee walking toward the back of the store. They stopped, pointed to a leaning display, then pointed to the front, the back, and another aisle. Standing face to face in disagreement. The manager tucked her cigarette over her ear, reached out and shook the display, knocking several cans to the floor.

Now.

He put on the smile, eyes twinkling. He opened the door and located the puppy ad. "I need one of those." He tore one strip off. "402-572-1224. I'll call this number as soon as I get back home." He strutted to a cash register.

"Hello, Sir. What'd you say?" A tubby girl, sixteen or so, stood next to the cash register. She c****d her head at him, revealing an obnoxious red stripe running throughout her mouse brown hair.

He didn't answer.

Louder. "Uh ... how're ya doin' today? Lookin' for some puppies?" She yanked at the plastic shopping bags on a stand, separating them, pulling the end one open. Her fake gold name tag said MINDY ASHTON.

Clarence stopped and watched everything she did. "I see you're really busy today. Got your bags all ready, do you? Ready for that rush?" He smirked and pushed his fist into the air with the old one-two. "Where're you from anyway? Nebraska? Shelby? Chicaaaa-go?"

"Sir, I'm from here." She pointed to the floor. "Osceola, Nebraska. This is where it's at, Dude." She grinned, braces gleaming, and crossed her dark eyes above her glasses. Red pockmarks scarred her light skin. Doughnut rolls circled her middle.

"Dude?" He cleared his throat. "Why in my day—"

"In your day, you didn't have pop, TV, cell phones, or internet." The tall, gangly employee had returned, carrying a roll of trash bags. JOHN POTTER, according to his name tag. He glanced toward Mindy and smacked his forehead. "Oh, yeah. You had internet. But back then, it was called Pony Express."

Grrr. "Where're you from? The devil?" Clarence stomped past the registers and found himself face-to-face with the manager, arms across her chest, one pierced eyebrow raised.

"Sir." She greeted him and tapped her foot. "Or should I call you, Osceola?"

"I'm not from here."

She grinned. "Okay. So where are you from?" She tapped his chest. "You're new in these here parts, right?"

He looked down at her finger touching his shirt, at her name tag—TANDY LARKIN—then up to her face. "Did you know that your clerk up there, whatshername, is doing nothing? Absolutely nothing?" He looked back at Mindy and pointed. "See? She's just hangin' out."

Mindy grinned at him and waved, twining a lock of her hair.

"If she was busier, she lose some of that baby fat. She's never going to find a boyfriend with all that hanging on her."

Mindy's face fell, smile disappeared.

John stepped in front of her, pushed his black-rimmed glasses up on his pointy nose and slicked back his dark shaggy hair. Hands on his hips.

"Oh. Oh, I get it. She does have a boyfriend. It's that loser. The one from the devil." Back to the manager. "Where's he from?"

John adjusted his apron and boomed out. "Omaha."

Clarence swung back to John. "Oh. Omaha. That explains it." He sauntered past Tandy.

"Sir, what's your name? I don't believe the customer's always right with you around. That was just plain mean. We try to be nice—"

"Nice." He planted his feet in the middle of the aisle. "If you were nice, you'd get me outa that place up there on the hill." He shook his head. "It's nasty up there. The place stinks. The people stink. They s**t in any bathroom they want."

John crept up beside Clarence. "Oh, so you're from ... up there." He pointed, a mock villainous expression on his face. "Then it's a good fit, huh. Nasty, stinky place for a nasty, stinky man. High five, Osceola!" He held his hand well above Clarence's head. "No, wait. You can't reach." He looked way up at his hand, on the end of his long skinny arm, then down at Clarence.

"John, get to work." Tandy eyed Clarence. "And as for you Mr. Osceola, you'd better get your little tooshie up front and apologize to Mindy."

Mindy smiled and picked up a bulging trash bag, spun it around and fastened it. "That's all right. Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me." She carried the trash bag past them, bumping it against her leg with each step.

Clarence stepped in behind Mindy and swaggered in her footsteps.

"Osceola, stop! That's enough." John held his hand out traffic-cop-style in front of Clarence.

Mindy sighed. "It's really okay. He reminds me of Grandpa—sorta. Grandpa was mean, too."

Tandy started toward the back of the store. "Okay, kids. I have work to do." She retrieved the cigarette from her ear. "I hope that in my absence you can all behave yourselves, get your work done, and be nice." She slowed and turned toward Clarence and waved the cigarette in his face. "Extra nice."

A buzzer went off at the check stand. They all twirled to see who had set it off.

Clarence made a bee-line for the back room but got wedged between the manager and a shelf of cereal boxes.

"Let me go," he puffed. "I have to find some ... sardines and crackers." He tried again. "I need to use the bathroom."

Glass crashed up front. Tandy immediately forgot Clarence and ran in the direction of the noise.

"Oh, no. I hope it's not pickles again."

"Bring the broom."

"Grab the mop and paper towels."

"Mop emergency in aisle ... by the check stands," It sounded like John's voice over the loudspeaker. "Whew. Pickles."

Clarence edged to the back room and bolted for the door. "Saved by the buzzer," he whispered. He looked over his shoulder. "And pickles." Quietly he opened the back door, but the wind caught it and slammed it against the building. He glimpsed a hawk rising with the wind current—just like the one that had broken through his window. The sunshine blinded him right at the spot the bird flew into. He stepped outside, shielding his eyes. The bird circled the building as he shut the door.

"Where're you going, beautiful bird? What are you circling?"

Clarence rotated with the hawk, following its lead. Around and around he followed the bird in a rhythmic dance—the bird in the air, Clarence on the ground. The hawk rose, glided, dove, then soared again on the wind current. Show-off. A bandage appeared partly torn off one wing.

He squinted into the sun. They let it loose already? Maybe it wasn't hurt as bad as they thought. Or maybe that demon lady, Henningway, claimed the aviary back for those little fake birds.

Silence.

The hawk hovered, wings hugging the flow of air. Then the powerful bird lifted, banked, and dove right for Clarence.

He ducked and lost his balance.

As he flailed, the bird screeched, piercing his eardrums, sending shivers up his spine.

He tumbled on the concrete, to his hands and knees, and the bird flew behind him. "Are you hunting me?" He tried to track it, but the sun blinded him. "I helped you," he shouted. "If I had a gun I'd shoot you right now, I would, you old buzzard. I'd shoot you dead."

Clarence grappled for a handhold. He staggered to his feet, and leaned against the building, catching his breath. He brushed his jeans off and examined the palms of his hands. Old, tough ropy scars lined them, traveling up the inside of one arm. One little finger curved inward, like a claw.

Smoke swirled, transporting him back in time—back to when he was a small boy. His mother had just died of polio and he had blindly run away into the cold night. Firelight drew him just over the next ridge from their house where a seasoned hobo had been warming beans over a fire. The old man had shown him how to warm his hands, but before the man could stop him, Clarence stuck his hands into the flames. He was so cold, he kept reaching out and touching the fire, terribly burning the palms of his hands. Grief-numbed, he had hardly felt the pain.

Smoke cleared.

Clarence stumbled backward along the wall of the grocery store. His foot kicked a pile of old dirty pipes, and he bent to pick one up. He shook the pipe at the hawk. "You coulda gotten me killed, old bird."

The hawk circled and screeched, dove at Clarence, and pulled up, just missing him again.

Clarence's hand pounded his chest as he gasped for breath.