* * * *
While Wilson carried out his daily constitutionals, Calliope strolled the hallways of Villa Maria-Sedona bored out of her bloomers.
After yesterday’s excitement and notoriety the day was shaping up to be the mother of all tedious days.
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her paisley Capri’s and sighed. She smiled at Clara Denison as they passed. “What’s shaking?” she asked. Neither of them stopped, but each turned and walked backward.
“Every roll, if I move too fast.”
Keeping a slow backward walk, Calliope chuckled appropriately. “You’re looking good. How many pounds is it now?”
“Twenty and a half.”
“Good show! Keep up the good work.”
“Are you on your way to Bingo?”
Ha. Now, there’s a fun time. “No, just getting some exercise. Toodle-dee-do.” Calliope waved goodbye.
She faced forward and ambled toward the rear of the building, checking her watch. 8:10. Gawd. Time seemed at a standstill.
On her way past the Thornhill suite, she heard The Third cussing something fierce. Grace might not be the recipient of his blasphemy ― there was always the chance he cursed his silk smoking jacket to eternal damnation ― but Calliope wouldn’t take those odds.
She grasped the doorknob and with a swift turn and a hardy push, Calliope burst into the foyer and followed the sound of The Third’s booming voice. If he’d laid one hand on Grace.…
With her heart thumping, she flew into the kitchen in the same instant The Third raised a baseball glove-size hand in the air. Not intimidated in the least, she rapidly took in the scene. Certain the backhander was meant for Grace cowering and crying and covering her face in the corner, Calliope reacted reflexively and her mind set on one intent ― to protect Gracie.
Her hand curled around the handle of an iron skillet on a burner on the stove.
“Leave her alone, you old gasbag,” she said and hefted the pan in the air and swung, hitting The Third squarely on the back on his head.
Bongggg ricocheted off the walls as The Third crumpled to the floor.
Calliope let the skillet fall from her hands as she stepped over his still body and ran to Grace’s side. She brushed hair from her tear-drenched face. “Everything’s all right now, Gracie. Shh.”
Grace whimpered.
“Shh,” Calliope said again and hugged her tightly, running her hand up and down the back of Grace’s head. “You’re safe now, honey.” She looked at The Third’s still motionless body.
“Is he dead?” Grace asked, wiping her nose with a tissue she dug from her brassiere.
Calliope hadn’t considered it. She could have killed him. Truthfully, she wanted to when she saw him about to attack Grace. There was no doubt about it. But did she? Nah. The Third had too hard a head, and she didn’t pack the wallop she did four decades ago.
She studied him more closely. His head was twisted at an odd angle and one of his legs was bent under him. His toupee sat askew on the top of his bald and wrinkled pâté. He looked a funny sight. Now was not the time to laugh, she told herself as she waited for the rise and fall of his chest.
The Third didn’t appear to be breathing.
Oh my.
Maybe she did kill him.
Oh my.
She’d spend the rest of her life on her knees atoning for the mortal sin.
Calliope kicked him in the shin. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Frederick!”
Still, he didn’t stir. At another time, the sound of her voice would prompt a reaction from him. She grew more anxious with each passing second.
Oh Lordy.
She’d killed a man…well, to use the term loosely. With her cheeks sucked in on one another and her brows raised to her hairline, she saw herself in some deep doo-doo this time.
“Is he dead?” Grace asked again.
Calliope detected a note of hope in Grace’s voice. On the one hand, she was happy to oblige, but the reason she could oblige scared the hell out of her.
Did they put little old ladies on death row?
No longer able to stand the unknown, she propped Grace, who now seemed lethargic and unable to hold her head up without assistance, against the wall. “Don’t move. Okay?” Stupid question.
Grace was unresponsive, her eyes never moving from The Third’s prone form.
Calliope dismissed Grace with a wave of her hand. “First things first.”
Hating to touch his foul flesh, but seeing no way around the matter, Calliope felt for a pulse in his wrist. Nothing. Her heart rate accelerated. She flipped him over on his back and gave his chest a solid whack with her fist.
She listened for a heart beat.
Nothing.
Damn.
She looked at his thin lips and considered…no, no way. She turned to Grace, lying like a drunken sailor in the corner. “Grace, give him mouth to mouth.”
Grace came to. “I’m not giving him anything! It’s God’s will he’s dead. We should not interfere with the Lord’s plans.” She held a finger in the air.
Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one facing death row. With her choices limited, Calliope banged her fist against his chest one more time and sent God a fervent but quick prayer.
She yelled, “Yahoo”, when The Third moaned. She ignored Grace when she groaned her displeasure at The Third’s revival.
Now that The Third was coming to, it occurred to Calliope she needed a good story. Never mind that what The Third was doing to Grace when Calliope interfered was morally and legally wrong. Never mind that The Third deserved to die. Never mind that The Third should be happy she didn’t kill him.
He moaned again, and his eyelids fluttered.
Calliope slapped him on the forearm. “Oh stop whining, Frederick.” Think what to do, Calliope.
The Third would have a whopping headache. She’d clobbered him but good. The pills, Calliope. What about the pills?
Right!
She reached into her turban and extracted the plastic button bag from the folds. “Grace, give me a hand to lift him,” she said, taking a morphine pill in her hand.
Between the two of them, they propped him to a sitting position. His head lolled to one side. Calliope took the capsule between her fingers and when she was an inch from his mouth, she said, “Open up, Frederick. Over the lips, across the tongue and down the hatch.” That cracked her up.
Calliope decided she was in shock and abruptly shut her mouth. She pushed the pill past his lips and onto his tongue. She pinched his lips together more firmly than needed given The Third’s semi-conscious state. “Now swallow, Frederick.” That struck her funny, too.
When he didn’t send the drug to his stomach, she slapped his cheek a few times.
What a rush.
The Third groaned, swallowed and opened his eyes. “Wh-hat happened?”
“Take it easy, Frederick,” Calliope patted his hand. An idea came to her. “You took a nasty fall.” When the truth would hurt, a lie was, therefore, permissible. She was sure this was a gospel maxim, although she could have read it on a bumper sticker. “You must have taken a weak spell.”
“I did?” He ran his hand over the back of his head. “Owww….”
“You hit your head when you fell.” Calliope crossed herself and swore to God she would become a better person from this day forward.