Something is Out There Page 7

  Captain Heinrich Gruber, officer of the German Wehrmacht, thought about his wife and infant son, whom he would never see. He lowered his head and placed the shears on the ground.

  ***

  The sun broke through the clouds, brightening the clearing in the forest. Birds twittered in the trees. A rabbit hopped timidly up to a black boot on the ground, sniffed it, and moved on. Footsteps and voices approached, and the rabbit fled.

  Mayor Stravos and about a dozen of the village men entered the clearing, stopped and silently gazed around at the carnage; the torn bodies and limbs and blood. Stavros spoke rapidly, quietly. Three of the men went around gathering up the corpses and body parts they could reach; another collected wood and built a large fire. The rest began the heavy work of sealing up the entrance to the temple.

  A shout as a searcher discovered the body of the guide. The men collected around him, debating. At last a consensus was reached and a litter was built, his body placed upon it.The other bodies were thrown on the fire. Weapons and ammunition were set aside.

  Eventually, near dusk, the men gathered at the remains of the fire and threw dirt on it until it was extinguished. The ashes and bones were kicked and scattered. The weapons were passed out. Two men carried the litter bearing the body of the guide, and they started down the hill.

  As the men made their way to the path, a heavy foot came down on a weathered photograph, crushing it into the mud and leaves. It was a photograph of a woman, smiling as she held her infant son. The men continued on, back to their village, back to their lives.

  Ancient Aliens

  So I’m sitting at the front desk at two in the morning, annotating the shit out of Paradise Lost and trying not to fall asleep when the lights go out. Just for a few seconds, and then they blink back on, and I hear the computer reboot.

  That’s when one of the residents starts shouting. I wait, fluorescent yellow highlighter poised above Eve’s transgression, hoping that Yesenia or Diane will handle it, but the shouting continues, eventually morphing into a full-fledged scream. There’s a faint crash. Then a louder, denser thump. I scan the monitors, but they’re still coming online. Diane is in the break room, probably with her earbuds in, watching something on her phone. No sign of Yesenia. She’s most likely in the parking lot with her boyfriend, Freddy. He drives a tow truck and every so often he swings by and Yesenia goes out “for a smoke break” and she and Freddy do whatever it is that tow truck drivers and their girlfriends do in the cabs of tow trucks at two in the morning. She knows that there are always supposed to be three of us in the building. But since she’s in charge of the graveyard shift, what can I do? The screaming abates for a moment and I relax. A safety alarm goes off.

  “Shit!” I slam my Milton shut, switch off the alarm and check the room (it’s Mr. Franklin) and head down the east wing corridor.

  The screaming gets louder and less intelligible the closer I get. A few residents have poked their heads out of their rooms, like curious prairie dogs. For the most part, the old folks have difficulty sleeping through the night, and although we discourage it, they sometimes come out and sit in the lounge or to visit us at the front desk. Others spend their nights alone in their rooms watching old movies and infomercials. But this group was woken up, and that’s saying something about the force of Mr. Franklin’s screaming. The old bastard can flat-out wail. They clutch their terrycloth robes over their pajamas with bony, spotted fists, eyes wide with concern. Probably thinking, another one gone?

  “What’s happening, Kyle?”

  “Is it a fire?”

  “Who died?”

  I pat the air, making placating gestures. “Everything’s fine. Mr. Franklin fell out of bed again. You can all go back to your rooms.”

  No good. They shuffle along behind me, their slippers swishing along the white linoleum. They don’t know me as well as they do the day staff. In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen most of them vertical. Usually, during my shift (eleven to seven) my interactions take place in their rooms, either giving them their meds or answering calls.

  I put my head back and call out at the top of my lungs. “Yesenia!” Shouting in the corridor at two am is usually frowned upon, but at this point It doesn’t matter. Nobody could sleep through this. Diane shows up and starts crowd control, trying to herd the residents back to their rooms, but they’re not having any of it. This is SOMETHING NEW, and that’s rare.

  I approach Mr. Franklin’s door at a quick walk. His door is partially open, which is unusual, but it explains why his scream is so loud. Even though he’s still in full voice, I don’t see him at first. It’s dark, and I flip the light switch, but only one of the overhead fluorescents sputters on. Mr. Franklin sits, huddled in the corner, one gnarled fist curled up in his mouth, his other arm extended, pointing at the window. I barely register the pool of urine beneath him as I gaze where he’s pointing.

  Everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) in his room is piled up against the window. It’s like his room was tipped sideways and all his stuff slid against the window. A chair—no, two chairs. His dresser, a drawer half open and his sad old man clothes hanging out. The TV sits precariously atop the dresser. It looks like it might tumble to the floor at any moment, so I go over and gently put it on the floor. It’s tough finding a place to stand because books and magazines are scattered all over the floor beneath the window. I slide on a copy of Time and send it skittering across the floor. A couple of shattered picture frames lay broken, beneath the bed, which is on end leaning against the window. And those hospital beds are wicked heavy. The more doodads they have, the more they weigh. And this one is at least three hundred pounds. So how the hell did this weak old man—who barely walks—move all his shit, including his bed, up against the window? And, oh yeah, he’s still screaming.

  I go to him, crouch down. The other residents, along with Diane, have started wandering in, murmuring and commenting. It’s kind of hard to hear though, because Mr. Franklin WILL NOT STOP SCREAMING.

  “Hey. Hey.” I kneel beside him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. His scream falters for a second, and he looks at me. “Hey, Mr. Franklin, it’s me, Kyle. Do you know me?”

  I cringe, anticipating another scream as his mouth opens (I’m remembering how my brother, when he was really little and crying, would sometimes do that thing where they look at you, stop crying, take a deep breath, and just WAIL.) but he snaps it shut. As much as a toothless mouth can snap, that is.

  He gulps once, blinks his yellow, watery eyes, then says, in a raspy voice (and who can blame him, after all that screaming), “There was something outside my window. Then it came in my room.”

  I turn back to the furniture piled up by the window. I motion at it. “Did you do this?”

  He looks at the massive pile of furniture, clothing, books, pictures, lamps, and sneers at me. “I couldn’t lift all that, you jackass.” Good old Mr. Franklin.

  “La puta madre!”I hear from behind me.

  Oh thank goodness. Yesenia is here.

  An hour later, the place is quiet. We got Mr. Franklin sedated and moved to an empty room, and all the other residents are back in their rooms. Diane is doing some tubing changes. I'm filling out the incident report and Yesenia strolls up, unrolls her rubber gloves and tosses them in a trash can. She’s a few years older than me and has been working at Vista Del Lago Senior Living for about three years to my six months.

  Vista Del Lago means “Lake View” but a better name would be “shitty pond view”. There’s not much of a lake, and not much of a view. The “lake” is actually behind the home, and to view it, you have to walk all the way around, past the employee parking lot and the equipment shed. That’s where they keep the landscaping equipment: a rake, a ladder, a wheelbarrow with a flat tire and the riding mower Carl uses. It’s also a good to place to scarf a beer or two once in awhile.

  There are a couple of benches set up, and the residents like to sit and stare at the oily water. We have to keep an eye on th
em, so we have a camera set up and we can check the monitor at the front desk, because according to rumor, a resident walked into the lake a few years back and almost drowned. The admin thought about draining it, but then (this is still according to rumor) they would have had to change the name of the facility, and apparently, that would not have been cost effective. So a compromise was reached. A sign stating “Caution: No Swimming” with a little picture of a swimming figure with a big slash through him. Like any of these folks are going to go swimming.

  Yesenia plants herself on the end of the desk. She says, “Hey.”

  “Hey, what? Thanks for nothing, by the way. Where were you?”

  Unlike me, Yesenia’s an actual nurse. I’m a “nursing assistant”. That’s what it says on my badge. I never took any nursing classes or anything. I’m an English major.

  “I was busy,” is all she says.

  “Well, I could have used your help,” I mumble.

  She bats her big dark eyes at me. “Niño, you had it under control.”

  I go back to my work. She wants something.

  “So Kyle ... ?”

  “Yeah?”

  Her voice is unsure, which is unlike her. Yesinia is usually large and in charge. “Did you notice anything weird about what happened?”

  “I thought it was all pretty fucking weird, if you really want to know.”

  She stares at me, thinking. Yesenia usually says what’s on her mind; she’s not a thinker, so this gets me thinking. I look up at her.

  “What’s bothering you?”

  “Did you notice anything funny about Mr. LaFica?”

  I shrug. Mr. LaFica was one of the prairie dogs I had to escort back to their rooms after all the excitement. “What about him?” I look at my watch and fill out a time square on the med chart.

  “How did he get out of his room?” Yesenia asks.

  My pen stops. She’s right. Mr. LaFica is in his mid-eighties, and he hasn’t walked since I’ve been there. In fact, he needs help just getting in and out of bed. He’s pleasant enough. A little, wiry guy with thick eyebrows over eyes that are perpetually squinting because he’s nearly blind. Big black glasses with thick lenses. He kind of reminds me of Mr. Magoo. I hadn't even noticed he wasn’t in his wheelchair.

  “Maybe someone helped him?” I offer.

  She shakes her head. “I doubt it. Did you notice him out of his room when you first got to Mr. Franklin’s room?”

  “I'm not sure,” I start. Is she accusing me of something? “I was on my own, you know, since you were nowhere to be found, and it was pretty hectic.”

  She hops off the desk. “Forget it. I’m going to restock the carts.”

  I grunt in return but say nothing else. I’m still pissed at her for ditching me. But after the sound of her footsteps fade, I’m still thinking. How did Mr. LaFica get out of his room?

  ***

  When I show up at work, Carl pulls me into the break room to find out what happened last night. He says Mr. Blandon, the facility administrator (aka our boss), was really, really pissed off about the state of Mr. Franklin’s room. Carl’s name tag lists him as “Dietician”, but he doesn’t cook anything. Like me, he does a little bit of everything, from changing feeding tubes to wheeling residents out to the “lake” to being a bingo caller on Tuesdays. His specialty is repairing broken or damaged equipment. He’s got a real feel for that stuff. He even replaced the water pump on my car a few weeks ago. Saved me a shitload of money.

  I tell him what I know. Mr. Franklin started screaming, his alarm went off, and what I found when I got to his room.

  “Blandon had me spend all day moving furniture and fixing the window. That bed is pretty much busted. Don’t know if we can fix it.”

  “Do you think I’m in trouble? I mean, it wasn’t my fault. But I was at the desk.”

  He shakes his head. “He said something about having a responsibility and possible lawsuits and blah blah blah. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. “

  I vow to myself to be the best employee I can be from that point forward. This is something I vow at least once a week. And I mean it, I really do. But sometimes... stuff happens.

  I ask him how Mr. Franklin is doing and Carl smiles. “That crusty old bastard is back to normal. He says he likes his new room better and won’t move back.”

  “How does Blandon feel about that?”

  “He’s cool, says he wants to keep Franklin happy.”

  As we step out into the main corridor, Mr. LaFica walks by. Walks. No chair, no walker, no glasses, no nothing. Carl and I both watch him pass, then look at each other.

  “What do you think of that?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “It happens sometimes. Maybe the screaming got him all worked up and he got out of bed by himself before he knew what he was doing, and then he’s all like, ‘Damn! I got out of bed all by myself! I’m not as weak as I thought I was!’.”

  I let this bounce around in my head for a few seconds. “Is that really what you think?”

  “Sure. Why not? It makes as much sense as anything else,” Carl replies.

  “But isn’t he almost blind? How do you explain that?”

  Carl shrugs.

  I ask, “Did anyone talk to him? Ask him about how he could walk all of a sudden?”

  “I talked to him while I changed his bedding today, asked him what happened. All he really said was ‘It’s about time,’ or something like that. Kept changing the subject. Asking me questions. Lots of questions.” Carl looked thoughtful, his massive brow wrinkling.

  “Does he have any family? Did someone call to let them know he’s ambulatory?” (I like using the jargon once in a while. It makes me feel smarter, and you never know who might be listening.)

  He shakes his head. “Nah. he doesn’t have any family. Just us.”

  This is probably the hardest thing about this business. The people who have no one. Just forgotten. Sure, when they first move in and the family visits once a week, then once a month, but then... For some of these poor bastards, it’s like dropping off an old dog at the door of animal control. It’s your problem now.

  Carl turns to go, then stops. ”Something else weird. He spent all afternoon with Mrs. Mendez.”

  “That is weird.” Mrs. Mendez never talked to anyone. She was another one of the residents who never had visitors. She kept to herself, nice and polite, but never socialized, never watched TV with the others, never did any activities. She read a lot. “What were they talking about?”

  “I don’t know. They were in the common room on the couch. Just talking. For like three hours. I had to force them to go eat dinner.”

  ***

  I spend most of my shift doing rounds: bed checks, passing out meds and generally being a presence. Yesenia is on her best behavior as well, all smiley and efficient. I stick my head in Mr. Franklin’s old room and see that Carl has done an admirable job of putting it back together. Everything is back where it’s supposed to be, although the hospital bed looks a little tweaked out of shape. All the broken glass and plaster has been swept up. And the window is patched over with a sheet of plywood. Large cracks lead from the edges of the window up and down the wall, and plaster is crumbled away in several places. The room still needs work, and Blandon can’t be happy about that. “Empty beds equal empty wallets”, he says sometimes. Before I leave the room, I look at the window again, or what’s left of it. What the hell happened in here?

  As I make my way through the east wing, clipboard and pen in hand, I hear strange sounds coming from my left. I check the roster. Mrs. Mendez’s room. I pause just outside the door. Sounds like someone’s in pain. I decide not to call Yesenia. I can handle this. I open the door and step inside, and instantly wish I hadn't.

  Mrs. Mendez is in bed all right, but she’s not alone. She’s currently astride Mr. LaFica, who has a dreamy look on his face as he gropes her withered old body. Both of them are stark naked. She glances over at me but doesn’t stop grinding.

  “We
like this!” says Mrs. Mendez with an enthusiastic smile. LaFica opens his eyes, sees me, and nods vigorously.

  I start to say something, but really, what can I say? Be careful? Have fun? Instead, I nod and say quietly, “Sorry to interrupt,” and back out into the hallway.

  Yesenia is at the front desk, typing away on the computer. She looks up at me with one eye, the other on her screen. I don’t know how she does it, but she does.

  “Nice and quiet tonight. Freddy will not be stopping by, in case you’re interested.”

  “Awesome,” I say, unable to get the image of Mrs. Mendez's withered, naked, gyrating form out of my mind. “Have you noticed anything strange about Mrs. Mendez?”

  “Mrs. Mendez?” Yesenia stops typing. “Yeah. I did. She refused to take her meds tonight. She usually takes Flurazepam to help her sleep; she’s got insomnia and mostly watches TV all night, but she flat-out refused to take her meds. I didn’t press because it’s only one night, but I put a note on her chart. Come to think of it, that’s the longest conversation I’ve ever had with her.” She meets my eyes. “Why are you asking?”

  I sigh. “Well, she and Mr. La Fica are doing the nasty right now.”

  Her jaw drops. The only sound is the air being pushed through the ceiling vents and the hiss of a car passing by outside.

  “No way. I gotta see this.” She stands up and starts down the hallway. I follow. But at a distance. I’ve already seen enough. She reaches Mrs. Mendez’s door and quietly opens it and peeks inside. A few seconds pass. She says something I can’t hear and pulls back out into the hallway. She gently closes the door. She looks at me, then walks back to the front desk.

  “What?” I ask. “What happened?”

  She blinks her heavy lashes a few times, starts to speak, stifles a giggle. “They asked me to join them.”

  I open my mouth, but I have no response to this.