"How often does Tammy work now?"
"Fridays, sometimes on Saturdays. Her husband's a truck driver, gone on weekends, and she needs the extra money."
"Who are the clients?"
"She has a few. She's careful and selective. Interested?"
"No. Just curious. Can I expect the same noise every Friday and Saturday?"
"More than likely."
"You didn't tell me this when I rented the place."
"You didn't ask. Come on now, Gill, you're not really upset. If you'd like, I could put in a good word with Tammy. It'd be a short walk. She could even come to your room."
"How much does she charge?"
"It's negotiable. I'll fix it for you."
"I'll think about it."
*
After thirty days, I'm beckoned to the office of Ms. Drell for an evaluation. Big companies adopt these policies that fill up their various manuals and handbooks and make them all feel as though they're being superbly managed. HVQH wants each new employee evaluated at thirty, sixty, and ninety-day intervals, then once every six months. Most nursing homes have similar language on the books but rarely bother with actual meetings.
We dance through the usual crap about how I'm doing, what I think of the job, how I'm getting along with the other employees. So far, no complaints. She compliments me on my willingness to volunteer for overtime. I have to admit that she's not as bad as I first thought. I've been wrong before, but not often. She's still on my list, but down to number three.
"The patients seem to like you," she says.
"They're very sweet."
"Why do you spend so much time talking to the cooks in the kitchen?"
"Is that against the rules?"
"Well, no, just a bit unusual."
"I'll be happy to stop if it bothers you." I have no intention of stopping, regardless of what Ms. Drell says.
"Oh no. We found some Playboy magazines under Mr. Spurlock's mattress. Any idea where they came from?"
"Did you ask Mr. Spurlock?"
"Yes, and he's not saying."
Attaboy, Lyle. "I have no idea where they came from. Are they against the rules?"
"We frown on such filth. Are you sure you had nothing to do with them?"
"It seems to me that if Mr. Spurlock, who's eighty-four and paying full rent, wants to look at Playboys, then he should be allowed to do so. What's the harm?"
"You don't know Mr. Spurlock. We try to keep him in a state of non-arousal. Otherwise, well, he's a real handful."
"He's eighty-four."
"How do you know he's paying full rent?"
"That's what he told me."
She flipped a page as if there were many entries in my file. After a moment, she closed it and said, "So far so good, Gill. We are pleased with your performance. You may go."
Dismissed, I went straight to the kitchen and told Rozelle about the recent events at Miss Ruby's.
*
After six weeks in Clanton, my research is complete. I've combed through all public records, and I've studied hundreds of old issues of the Ford County Times, which are also stored in the courthouse. No lawsuits have been filed against Quiet Haven. Only two minor complaints are on record with the agency in Jackson, and both were handled administratively.
Only two residents of Quiet Haven have any assets to speak of. Mr. Jesse Plankmore owns three hundred acres of scrub pine near Pidgeon Island, in the far northeastern section of Ford County, But Mr. Plankmore doesn't know it anymore. He checked out years ago and will succumb any day now. Plus, his wife died eleven years ago, and her will was probated by a local lawyer. I've read it twice. All assets were willed to Mr. Plankmore, then to the four children upon his death. It's safe to assume he has an identical will, the original of which is locked away in the lawyer's safe-deposit box.
The other property owner is my pal Lyle Spurlock. With six hundred and foty acres of unencumbered land in his neglected portfolio, he's one of the brightest prospects I've seen in years. Without him, I would begin my exit strategy.
Other research is revealing, and good for gossip, but not that valuable. Miss Ruby is actually sixty-eight years old, has three divorces on record, the most current one filed twenty-two years ago, has no children, no criminal record, and her building is appraised by the county at $52,000. Twenty years ago, when it was a full-fledged whorehouse, the appraisal was twice that. According to an old story in the Ford County Times, the police raided her eighteen years ago and arrested two of her girls and two of their customers, one of whom was a member of the state legislature, but from another county. Other stories followed. The legislator resigned in disgrace, then killed himself. The moral majority raised a ruckus, and Miss Ruby was effectively out of business.
Her only other asset, at least of interest to the county, is her 1972 Cadillac. Last year the license tags cost her $29.
It is the Cadillac I'm pondering when I allow her to catch me arriving home from work at 8:00 a.m. "Mornin', Gill," she rasps through her tar-laden lungs. "How 'bout a Jimmy?" She's on the narrow front porch, in some hideous ensemble of pink pajamas, lavender bathrobe, red rubber shower shoes, and a sweeping black hat that would deflect more rain than an umbrella. In other words, one of her usual outfits.
I glance at my watch, smile, say, "Sure."
She disappears inside and hurries back with two large turn biers of Jim Beam and soda water. There's a Marlboro stuck between her sticky red lips, and as she talks, it bounces rapidly up and down. "A good night at the nursing home, Gill?"
"The usual. Did you rest well?"
"Up all night."
"I’m sorry." She was up all night because she sleeps all day, a holdover from her previous life. She usually fights the whiskey until about 10:00 a.m., when she goes to bed and sleeps until dark.
We ramble about this and that, more gossip about people I'll never meet. I toy with the drink, but Fm afraid not to consume most of it. She's questioned my manhood on several occasions when I tried to slip by without fully enjoying the bourbon.
"Say, Miss Ruby, did you ever know a man by the name of Lyle Spurlock?" I ask during a lull.
It takes quite a while for her to recall all the men she's known, but Lyle eventually does not make the cut. "Afraid not, dear. Why?"
"He's one of my patients, my favorite, really, and I was think' ing of taking him to the movies tonight."
"How sweet of you."
"There's a double feature at the drive-in." She almost blows a mouthful of whiskey across the front yard, then laughs until she can't breathe. Finally, when she collects herself, she says,
"You're taking an old man to the dirty movies?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"That's funny." She's still highly amused, her large yellow teeth on full display. A pull of Jimmy, a drag of the cigarette, and she's now under control.
According to the archives of the Ford County Times, the Daisy Drive-In showed its outdoor version of Deep Throat in 1980, and the town of Clanton erupted. There were protests, marches, ordinances, lawsuits attacking ordinances, sermons and more sermons, speeches by politicians, and when the brouhaha was over and the dust settled, the drive-in was still in business, still showing dirty movies whenever it wanted, fully embraced by a federal court's interpretation of the First Amendment. As a compromise, though, the owner agreed to show the XXX stuff only on Wednesday nights, when the church folks were in church. The other nights were heavy on teenage horror flicks, but he promised as much Disney as he could get. Didn't matter. A boycott by the Christians had been in place for so long that the Daisy was generally regarded as a blight on the community.
"I don't suppose I could borrow your car?" I ask, apologetically.
"Why?"
"Well," I nodded at my sad little Beetle parked at the curb. "It's a bit small."
"Why don't you get something bigger?"
As small as it was, it was still worth more than her tank.
"I've been thinking about that. Anyway, it mi
ght be crowded. Just a thought, no big deal. I understand if you don't want to."
"Let me think about it." She rattles her ice and says, "Believe I'll have just a tad more. You?"
"No, thanks." My tongue is on fire and I'm suddenly groggy. I go to bed. She goes to bed. After a long sleep, we meet back on her porch at dusk, and she continues, "I think I'll have a little Jimmy. You?"
"No, thanks. I’m driving."
She mixes one, and we're off. I never expressly invited her to join me and Lyle for our boys' night out, but once I realized she had no intention of the Cadillac leaving without her, I said what the hell. Lyle Spurlock won't care. She confesses, as we sort of float through town in a vehicle that must feel similar to an oil barge going downriver, that she hopes the movies are not too raunchy. She says this with an exaggerated flapping of the eyelids, and I get the impression that Miss Ruby can take whatever filth the Daisy Drive-in can dish out.
I crack a window to allow fresh air a chance to dilute the fumes emanating from Miss Ruby. For the night out, she's chosen to give herself an extra dousing of her various perfumes. She lights a Marlboro but does not crack her window. For a second I fear that the flame might ignite the vapors engulfing the front seat and we could both be burned alive. The moment passes.
As we make our way to Quiet Haven, I regale Miss Ruby with all the gossip I've picked up in the kitchen on the subject of Mr. Lyle Spurlock and his roving eyes and hands. She claims to have heard the rumor, years back, about an elderly gent caught bedding a nurse, and seems genuinely excited about meeting such a character. Another nip of Jimmy, and she declares that she might just remember a Spurlock as a client after all, back in the glory days.
The second shift is run by Nurse Angel, a pious, hard woman who's currently number two on my shit list and may quite possibly become the first person I get fired here. She immediately informs me that she doesn't approve of my plans to take Lyle to the movies. (I've told no one but Lyle, and now Miss Ruby, which movies we're going to.) I fire back that it doesn't matter what she disapproves of because Ms. Wilma Drell, the number-one Queen Bee, has given approval, said approval not coming forth voluntarily until Mr. Spurlock and his daughter (by phone) had raised more hell than the Queen could take.
"It's in writing," I say. "Check the file. Approved by W. Drell."
She flings some paperwork, mumbles incoherently, frowns as if migraines were attacking. Within minutes, Lyle and I are shuffling out of the front door. He's wearing his nicest slacks and his only jacket, an old shiny navy blazer he's had for decades, and he walks with a determined limp. Outside the building, I grab his elbow and say, "Listen, Mr. Spurlock, we have an unexpected guest with us."
"Who?"
"She goes by Miss Ruby. She's my landlady. I borrowed her car and she came with it, sort of a package deal. Sorry."
"It's okay."
"She's nice. You'll like her."
"Thought we were going to watch dirty movies."
"That's right. Don't worry, they won't bother Miss Ruby. She's not much of a lady, if you know what I mean."
Lyle understands. With a gleam in his eyes, Lyle gets it completely. We stop at the front passenger's door and I introduce them, then Lyle crawls into the cavernous backseat. Before we're out of the parking lot, Miss Ruby is turning around, saying, "Lyle, dear, would you like a little Jim Beam?"
From her large red purse she's already pulling out a quart-size flask.
"I reckon not," Lyle says, and I relax. It's one thing to take Lyle out for a little porn, but if I brought him home sloshed, I could get into trouble.
She leans in my direction and says, "He's cute."
Away we go. I expect Miss Ruby to mention the Sonic, and within minutes she says, "Now, Gill, I'd like a cheeseburger and fries for dinner. How 'bout we run by the Sonic?"
With effort, I manage to fit the oil barge into a narrow slip at the Sonic. The place is packed, and I catch stares from some of the other customers, all sitting in vehicles that are noticeably smaller and newer. I don't know if they're amused by the bright red Cadillac that will barely fit, or by the sight of the odd trio in' side it. Not that I care.
I've done this before, at other homes. One of the greatest gifts I can give to my favorite friends is freedom. I've taken old ladies to churches, to country clubs, to funerals and weddings, and, of course, to shopping centers. I've taken old men to Legion halls, ball games, bars, churches, and coffee shops. They are childishly grateful for these little excursions, these simple acts of kindness that get them out of their rooms. And, sadly, these forays into the real world always cause trouble. The other employees, my esteemed co-workers, resent the fact that I'm willing to spend extra time with our residents, and the other residents become very jealous of the ones lucky enough to escape for a few hours. But trouble doesn't bother me.
Lyle claims to be full, no doubt stuffed with rubber chicken and green Jell-O. I order a hot dog and a root beer, and soon we're floating down the street again, Miss Ruby nibbling on a fry and Lyle way in the back somewhere relishing the open spaces. Abruptly, he says, "I'd like a beer."
I turn in to the lot of a convenience store. "What brand?"
"Schlitz," he says, with no hesitation.
I purchase a Six-pack of sixteen-ounce cans, hand them over, and we're off again. I hear a top pop, then a slurp. "You want one, Gill?" he asks.
"No, thanks." I hate the smell and taste of beer. Miss Ruby pours some bourbon into her Dr Pepper and sips away. She's grinning now, I guess because she has someone to drink with.
At the Daisy, I buy three tickets at five bucks each, no offer to pay from my pals here, and we ease through the gravel lot and select a spot on the third row, far away from any other vehicle. I count six others present. The movie is under way. I mount the speaker on my window, adjust the volume so Lyle can hear all the groaning, then settle low in my seat. Miss Ruby is still nibbling at her cheeseburger. Lyle slides across the rear seat to a spot directly in the middle so his view is unobstructed.
The plot soon becomes evident. A door-to-door salesman is trying to sell vacuum cleaners. You would expect a door-to-door salesman to be somewhat well-groomed and to at least try to have a pleasing personality. This guy is greased from head to toe, with earrings, tattoos, a tight silk shirt with few buttons, and a lusty sneer that would frighten any respectable housewife. Of course, in this film, there are no respectable housewives. Once our slimy salesman gets in the front door, dragging a useless vacuum cleaner behind him, the wife attacks him, clothes are removed, and all manner of frolicking ensues. The husband catches them on the sofa, and instead of beating the guy senseless with a vacuum cleaner hose, the hubby joins the fun. It's soon a family affair, with naked people rushing into the den from all directions. The family is one of those porn families where the children are the same age as the parents, but who cares? Neighbors arrive, and the scene becomes one of frenzied copulating in ways and positions few mortals can imagine.
I slide deeper into my seat, just barely able to see over the steering wheel. Miss Ruby nibbles away, chuckling at something on the screen, not the least bit embarrassed, and Lyle opens an-other beer, the only sound from back there.
Some redneck in a pickup two rows behind us lays on his horn every time a climactic moment is featured on film. Other than that, the Daisy is fairly quiet and deserted.
After the second orgy, I'm bored and I excuse myself to visit the men's room. I stroll across the gravel lot to a shabby little building where they sell snacks and have the toilets. The projection room is a wobbly appendage above it. The Daisy Drive-in has certainly seen better days. I pay for a bucket of stale popcorn and take my time returning to the red Cadillac. Along the way, I never consider glancing up at the screen.
Miss Ruby has disappeared! A split second after I realize her seat is empty, I hear her giggle in the backseat. Of course the dome light doesn't work, probably hasn't in twenty years or so. It's dark back there, and I do not turn around. "You guys okay?" I
ask, much like a babysitter.
"You betcha," Lyle says.
"There's more room back here," Miss Ruby says. After ten minutes, I excuse myself again, and I go for a long walk, across the let to the very back row and through an old fence, up an incline to the foot of an ancient tree where beer cans are scattered around a broken picnic table, evidence left behind by teenagers too young or too poor to buy tickets to the show. I sit on the rickety table and have a clear view of the screen in the distance. I count seven cars and two pickups, paying customers. The one nearest Miss Ruby's Cadillac still honks at just the right moments. Her car shines from the reflection on the screen. As far