Released

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The moment Clarence walked through the entrance of Hillcrest Homes, he flipped the emotion switch off. After sixty years in prison, he had that mastered.

He shoved pain and guilt deep, buried beneath the daily grind.

But memory wouldn't stay down.

His dad, Dawes Timmelsen, had never missed a day of the trial and his carpentry business had suffered. His voice broke the day the sheriff and deputies transported Clarence to prison: "Son, no matter what, I love you. Be strong."

Clarence still felt Dad's fingers digging into his shoulders as deputies pried him from his father's arms. His father's face haunted him—pain carved in every line.

That was the last time he had seen his dad.

His first day in prison had assaulted every sense. Musty, rancid odors. Harsh cleansers unable to mask the smells of evil and hatred. Malodorous sewage smells. Hardened eyes staring him down. The sounds of humanity, of a community galaxies apart from where he grew up, had shocked him, but at the same time, complete with its own standards, right or wrong.

All had attacked the newest arrival. Grief and pain became his closest allies.

The nursing home presented its own unique qualities. Years of meals layered with nearly dead floral arrangements rotting in foul water. Harsh cleaning and medicinal smells twisted into his senses, making his fast food lunch, already churning in his stomach, lurch as he followed Randy into the facility.

Old faces blended into no one.

A housekeeper rested on her mop, a slight smile bending her lips, warmth in her eyes.

Clarence looked away.

The pain then.

Pain now.

Always this brick of torment in his belly.

An abandoned walker waited outside a door, tennis balls protecting its feet.

Another reminder—this was the end of the line.

Hydraulic body lifts blocked the hall.

Beds with railings.

Oxygen tanks.

Wheelchairs.

Each time Clarence avoided one visual, he bumped into another. His body temperature boiled.

All logged in his memory to assault him later. All became a constant blur. He was trapped in this next stretch, this last duration of life.

"Hey Clarence," Randy broke in. "This is great. They have a pool table." He patted Clarence's arm. "You gotta get your own stick, man. And look. An ice cream machine. We need to get one of those for the pri—"

Clarence jerked around and glared at him.

A tall shapely woman appearing to be in her fifties walked up behind Randy, waving. "And you are Mr. Timmelsen, I presume."

"Clarence."

"Okay ... Clarence." She stepped beside Randy, and extended a slender hand, fingernails painted bright red. "I'm Miss Henningway, Administrator here at Hillcrest Homes." Her reddish-blond hair was cut in the latest swoop-over-one-eye style, her make-up precisely overdone.

Clarence stared at her hand.

Randy cleared his throat.

When Clarence didn't offer his, Miss Henningway picked at a nonexistent spot on her tight black skirt.

Clarence smirked. "This the way to my room?"

"Well, uh, I was going to give you the tour." She brightened. "The million dollar tour of our humble home."

"Our humble home. This isn't where you live."

"No ... but—"

"Well, show me around. Let's get this over with."

She began an obviously practiced speech in what had to be her best tour bus voice. "Welcome to Hillcrest Homes! I am Miss Henningway—"

"You said that."

"Well, um ... yes, and ... " She trailed off and mumbled under her breath. "Welcome to ... I am Miss ... oh yes!" She placed her hands on her heart. "We are so glad to have you, Mr. Timmelsen."

"Clarence. Just Clarence." He stared, seeing not only her female torso and hefty chest, but in his imagination she became the enemy, cloaked in a demon suit, with horns, tail, and spear, complete with designer glasses. Satan would be proud.

"Uh, yes. Clarence. Come with me, both of you. I'll show you around." She hesitated, squinting. "You're a lawyer, aren't you? I read that in your file, I think." She clapped her hands. "You could be our benefactor, what with your background and influence." She beamed and fluttered her eyes over her glasses. "We could sure use your ... expertise, Mr. uh ... Clarence."

He snorted. "I'm sure you could, especially my influence. I'd be happy to offer it sometime, if I wasn't so busy."

Randy leaned in beside him, hand placed under his arm. "Easy, Cowboy."

Miss Henningway blinked, cleared her throat and slipped a small post-it from her pocket. She scanned it, tucked her arm under Clarence's and began to drag him along. "Okay." She cleared her throat again, poised her feet together and recited, "We are a Christian facility, providing care for all people—all walks of life and abilities. From people who can live on their own, to the elder ... uh—"

"The old and unwanted," Clarence growled and pulled away.

She continued, as if on her own planet. "We provide all forms of care for those patrons and residents who can't take care of themselves." She waved and greeted a man in a wheelchair, as they passed. "People are friendly here."

The man didn't look up or acknowledge her.

She paused then pushed a door wide open. "We have a state-of-the-art kitchen."

Clarence and Randy stepped inside.

Two dietary employees froze. One—her hand raised above her head, gripped a head of cabbage; the other—crouched low, his hands cupped.

Clarence assumed the stance and held out his hands. "Here. Throw it here."

Red-faced, they turned their backs, knives clattering, sending cabbage chunks flying into huge bowls and onto the floor.

Miss Henningway twitched her pursed lips back and forth. Veins in her neck pumped. She backed out of the kitchen and began again. "And this is our beautiful dining room." She practically danced, patting Clarence's arm. "Notice our new flooring." She tapped a foot. "It's smooth and trouble free for wheelchair riders."

"Wheelchair riders?" Clarence rolled his eyes. He skirted around her.

She continued to tap her foot, looking Clarence up and down. "You're tall for your age."

"What?" Clarence stuttered. "Why'd you say that?"

"Well, most men your age have had some loss of height. You are in ama-a-zing shape."

Clarence looked at Randy, then at her. What the hell?

She moved on. "Our living rooms are newly remodeled, also. New sofas, chairs, drapes, carpeting. The works. All the latest home designs." She paused.

"Oh, you want applause?" Clarence obliged with one loud clap.

Miss Henningway frowned. She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out through her teeth. After a short moment, the fake smile reappeared and she turned. "Shall we?" She directed them to a large community room, equipped with tables, chairs and a kitchenette. Residents were gathering in wheelchairs and walkers. A wonderful aroma wafted from the oven.

"We have a baking class once a week. Oh my, the cookies they bake in there." She patted her tummy tires, blushing. "But activities here are not just for women. They're for everyone." She indicated the pool table, leaning on it in a swoon, sliding along the edge toward Clarence.

Only he saw it coming and sidestepped her.

Randy jumped to catch her as Clarence turned away.

"Are you all right?" Randy helped her balance. "You must have tripped with those heels." He cleared his throat. "Or something."

Clarence walked on and passed an old man standing in a doorway.

The man leaned on a walker, chewing on his words. "Another one bites the dust."

Old bastard.

A TV game show host blared behind him, "You have just won a trip to Timbuktu—all expenses paid."

The man raised an eyebrow. His mouth curved at one end.

Clarence glared.

"Harold, don't you have somewhere to be?" said Miss Henningway, stepping between them. "Baking perhaps?"

"Nope, I'm stayin' right here." His eyes never left Clarence's.

Standoff.

Still staring at Harold, Clarence shuffled from one foot to the other, his inner furnace boiled, his fists clenched at his sides. Miss Henningway tugged on his sleeve, dragging him along beside her.

Clarence pulled away.

She motioned to another door. "Here we have the spa, warm and cozy. All new tiles and wallpaper border. A wonderful new jacuzzi, complete with water jets and whirlpools." She swung the door open to reveal a huge walk-in tub, filled to the top with sudsy water, steam curling around an obese woman who sat in the tub scrubbing her red face.

The woman looked up, washcloth in hand, water streaming down her arm. "Eek!" She flopped both arms, sending water cascading over the sides like a stormy sea, splashing onto the tile floor.

A nurse rushed to her with a towel, covered her ample chest, then slammed the door in their faces. But not before giving Miss Henningway a dirty look. "Do you know how to knock?"

Clarence burst out laughing. "Bonus tour."

Miss Henningway stood in place, eyes piercing holes through the door.

Randy coughed. "Mind if we keep this going? I've got to drive all the way back to Chicago tonight."

Miss Henningway puffed out her cheeks, and just as quickly, turned and smiled a last stilted smile. "Well, here we are." Having reached the hall's far end, she marched into a bedroom and swept out her arm, presenting the room as if it were a deluxe suite in a fine hotel, complete with amenities and a view. "You have a window facing ... the parking lot so ... you can see the comings and goings. And you get wonderful sunshine." She paused for effect and pointed to the wall. "Also, your own picture of our Savior, Jesus Christ the Lord."

Clarence almost flipped the emotion switch to full on anger. "Yay. Where has He been the last sixty years and now He's Lord over my room?" Clarence took a step toward the picture.

Randy grabbed his arm and snarled next to his ear. "Back down, Clarence. We can do shackles here, too. You can take the picture down later."

Miss Henningway stared. "Not all believe and—"

"You bet your nursing home I don't believe."

Randy gripped Clarence even harder. "Shackles."

The administrator pursed her lips, her hands pressed together at her mouth.

Randy released Clarence and nodded at Miss Henningway.

"Um ... you have a closet, here." She opened the door to a cupboard, revealing a shelf above and a small clothes bar that would hold one suit and a jacket. Maybe a few shirts.

Clarence glanced down at the shopping bag still in Randy's hand.

"Oh, and the best part. Your bed." She bent down and patted the bright blue coverlet on a hospital-style bed complete with bars.

Finally she opened the only remaining door, revealing a man: pants around his ankles, arms hugging his walker, a grimace on his face.

She gasped. "Mr. Thompson. What are you doing?"

He looked up at her, blinking. "What the hell does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking a crap. Now shut the damn door and leave me in peace."

She complied, holding her nose, eyes watering as she staggered back. "Let's go down the hall to the ... um ... the chapel." She brightened. "Right this way."

Clarence covered his mouth, eyes brimming, and immediately converted his grin to a solemn face. He glanced at Randy.

Randy covered his mouth and clapped one hand on Clarence's shoulder.

Clarence slapped Randy on the back as he wiped his eyes.

"Please." Miss Henningway turned and beckoned to them. "Follow me." As they reached a set of double doors, her radio went off. She retrieved it and stepped away.

Clarence strolled into the chapel. Whew. Place needed a good airing out. Broken blinds hung in a window and wallpaper border trailed loose.

Miss Henningway glanced at Clarence, bobbed her head up and down several times and replaced the radio on her belt, resuming her air of authority. "I'm sorry about that little interruption. Your room will be put back in order."

Clarence grinned. "You'll kick the son-of-a-b***h out?"

She ignored Clarence and struck a Vanna White pose.

Her thick make-up had taken on an oily appearance. Her hair had turned frizzy, no longer in the smooth swoop. She was no Vanna. And she was fuming.

"A very nice little chapel. We have some fine services here. Priests and ministers come in, each taking turns, giving people of different faiths a chance to hear their doctrine preached." She resumed her air of authority, nodding and patting her chest. "Why, I've preached here on occasion myself."

"That's nice." Clarence scanned the room. Mismatched chairs and small altar. The final decorating touch: a huge body lift in the middle of the room. "I'm sure everybody gets elevated." He pushed the button on the lift. The swing assembly slowly rose as he walked off down the hall.

"Wait. Wait. I have good news," she said.

Clarence turned. "I'm going back to Chicago?"

Randy rushed to the lift, fumbled for the off button and cleared his throat.

Clarence took a deep breath, eyes on Randy. "I was told to be nice." He pointed down the hall. "But kinda tough when there's an old man shitting in my bathroom."

The administrator's face bloomed fiery red, from her neck up to her forehead. Her upper lip twitched to the side, her hands stayed on her hips. The radio went off again and she shook her finger in Clarence's face.

He put his hat on his head, gave the brim a flourish, pulled his gloves on and started back down the hall.

Randy hurried to catch up, still toting the grocery bag. "Wait, Clarence. Come on. She didn't know that guy'd be in there. It's all a misunderstanding."

Clarence nodded and kept on walking. "I agree. A misunderstanding that I'm supposed to be here. Take me back to your famous fast food restaurant on the way to Chicago." His nostrils flared, his breathing accelerated. He chewed the inside of his cheeks as tears dared to fill the corners of his eyes. He stomped past Harold's open door, shaking his head.

Randy caught up. "Clarence, come on. They'll clean your bathroom again." He covered a snicker. "Then you can add your ... uh, you can use it like your own. You'll see."

"They kick me out of prison and dump me here," Clarence growled under his breath. "But it looks like I don't belong here either." He stopped and Randy bumped into him. "Nobody cares whether I live or die. I'm an old man with nobody, nothing." He picked up his pace again. "I need to go to the hills by myself and die."

"You're not going anywhere to die. You have a lot of life to live." Randy caught up to Clarence and edged in closer. "Man, I know this isn't great, but what else have you got?"

Clarence stopped.

In front of him, a TV blared at people in wheelchairs arranged in a semi-circle: snoozing, snoring, some staring with mouths gaping, drool dripping on bibs. One resident rocked from side to side against chair restraints. There was an eerie pause in the racket from the television. No one stirred. One man coughed, spittle hitting the carpet in front of him.

Clarence whispered. "What else have I got?"