The Hand-Me-Down
By Lawrence Kelter
Carl Morgan falls into a kitchen chair. Not falls, but plummets like a sandbag cut from its mooring high above a Hollywood soundstage. He stares straight out, past his wife Molly, his gaze pinned on the kitchen window. Across the driveway, lights are out in the old Gustafson place, now leased to the state of California as a women’s shelter. Indigent women. Victims of circumstance. Substance abusers and other unfortunates sleeping five and six to a bedroom. Against the house, galvanized garbage pails sit overflowing with refuse, waiting most of the week for collection. Rain spilling over clogged gutters rat-a-tat-tats on the metal trash can lids like drumsticks rolling on a taut snare.
Molly can’t breathe. She strains to draw breath, but her lungs have seized. Her heart fails, then surges back with a hard thud. Lightheaded, she somehow manages to exhale. Faintly, she gasps and draws just enough air to keep going.
She’s accustomed to seeing stains on her husband’s shirt, congealed yellow egg yolk on his collar, and brown pot roast gravy over his big belly. She doesn’t bat an eyelash when she spots the stains on his laundry before throwing it in the washer.
But not blood. Never blood.
Until now.
His shirt is covered in it.
Giant red splotches.
Everywhere. Like a butcher’s apron.
Her throat goes dry. Her fingers twitch. Nothing else will move.
His light brown hair is stained crimson. Blood puddled in his ear canal is already coagulating. It drizzles down to his earlobe where it drip dries thick as paint. And there’s a haze over his eyes, as if there’s something in his system that doesn’t belong.
Jagged bolts of lightning split the sky. Thunder detonates high above. It’s the first heavy rain the drought-stricken area has seen in nearly a year. The wildfire smoke was so dense over the summer it was nearly impossible to breathe. Almost had to evacuate on three separate occasions. She’s vaguely aware of the rumbling outside but oblivious to what it means. The relief the rain is bringing. She should be jumping for joy, but her mind isn’t free to appreciate nature’s blessing. There’s only her husband Carl, covered in blood, motionless, frightening her to death.
Molly’s heart stumbles. Beats, then doesn’t. Can’t find its rhythm. The words, not again, claw at her heart. Knife-edged talons ripping and shredding. “Carl, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.” She’s so dry it feels as if there are glass shards lodged in her throat. “Have you been next door again?” she implores. Agonizes. “Carl, please tell me. Have you…?”
The women housed next door would rather be anywhere else on earth but have little choice as to their living arrangements. State-funded housing is bleak. Homelessness is tragic. So, here these women live with no friends, unwanted by their families and now their neighbors. Scorn greets them the moment they step outside the house. They’re looked upon as a blight on the neighborhood. They learn to keep their heads down and stay clear of the neighbors. Grow lonesome. Grow still lonelier. As if that’s possible. They’re ostracized. Shunned. Worse still, ignored. We can’t get rid of them, so let’s pretend they don’t exist. Lovely.
Ingrid, the realtor living down the block, tells Molly that the value of their home has dropped thirty percent since the shelter took up residence next door to them and that the company that bought the house and rents to the state is looking for additional properties in the neighborhood. If the state is successful, the Morgans might as well put a match to their home, collect the insurance money, and pray they don’t get caught.
And Carl’s not in great health. He needs to retire. Soon. As soon as he can. They bought the house at the peak of the market and are upside-down on their mortgage. They can barely afford to stay and can’t afford to sell. And if Carl loses his job as she fears he might… Dear God, Molly prays. I hope a good night’s sleep will set him right. Carl’s been demoted and hates going to work. He calls out regularly and has been warned that continued absenteeism might cost him his job. Might as in categorically.
Molly’s job doesn’t pay enough to carry their expenses. She works as a receptionist for a skinflint doctor. Hourly. No vacation. No medical insurance. She and the physician’s assistant come out of pocket for the coffee everyone drinks in the office. He drives a Benz and owns a speedboat that he berths at the dock of his waterfront property; brags about the house he bought for his newly married daughter. His investments. Trips to Disney World. He won’t pay for coffee. Supermarket brand. Not Starbucks.
Molly searches Carl’s expression, hoping to learn something, anything about what’s happened. She gets nothing. She hasn’t moved in moments but somehow finds the resolve to amble over to the sink. She wets a threadbare kitchen towel, then wrings out the excess water before returning to him. Like an artist working in reverse, she removes color from his face with precision strokes of the towel, wiping blood from around his eyes. He looks like a panda with light circles in place of dark. She shudders at the sight of him. He’s unnatural. Ghostly. The bags under his eyes are fleshy white. She cleans the bridge of his nose and the area around his mouth before returning to the sink to rinse the bloody towel. She watches the blood run from the towel and swirl in the stainless-steel sink before going down the drain. Like their lives.
Carl’s gut is the diameter of a pickle barrel and his ankles are as thick as the basement sewage line that has leaked from the very first day they took ownership. He’s a yeti with hair growing from every pore on his massive body, stiff Brillo-like hair with barbed ends that prick her skin when he lies on top of her. Rosebush thorns. No roses.
Doc Showalter tells him to lose weight—lots of it. Again. And again. And yet again. Carl says he’ll try but won’t. He doesn’t. Never has. Not for long. A day or two before falling off the wagon, then back to the snacks, cookies, chips, and beer. Beer is to Carl as methadone is to a heroin addict. The alcohol level in the beer is so low he can’t drink enough to get stoned, to saturate his fat-laden tissues. His gray matter. But he tries. He’s in pain and needs to blot it out. Some way. Somehow. Along with the alcohol come the calories, the cankles, and the pickle barrel gut. He’s fat and bloated and probably won’t live long, but at least he’s not drunk. Drunk is so much worse. Drunk is a disaster—a nightmare.
When he drinks, he stumbles into the john in the middle of the night and lets fly like a firefighter battling a blaze with a hose, unable to control the pressure coming out of the nozzle. He pisses all over the bathroom floor, on the seat, and behind the tank. Splashes the wallpaper. There’s a second bathroom on the upper level that Molly uses exclusively. He’s too fat to climb the stairs. Thank God.
His blank stare is still focused on the window, fixed on the women’s shelter across the way.
“Carl,” Molly asks, afraid of what she’ll hear, “what happened?” She turns and looks out the window, hoping to see something, hear anything that will shed light on what’s transpired. Did something happen next door, she worries. To one of those women? Please, God. No.
A light comes on in one of the upstairs rooms of the women’s shelter. She disregards it even though it’s past midnight and somewhere in the back of her mind she seems to recall someone telling her that the shelter has a strict lights-out policy. She turns back to her husband and continues to scrub the blood from his face. “Carl, please talk to me. It’ll be okay,” she says. “Whatever it is—” But there isn’t much behind her words. Nothing to cling to. How can there be? It’s not the first time. Not the second. “Carl, what kind of trouble are we in?” Should I call the police? She thinks about her suggestion but immediately shakes the idea out of her head. The iron-laden stench of freshly moistened blood hits the pit of her stomach, sending her to the kitchen sink. Moments later, bile chases blood down the drain.
Once waif thin, years of stress have whittled away Molly’s willpower and crushed her vanity, year by year, one unspeakable act at a time. She washes her vomit off the sweatshirt she picked up at the thrift store and returns to him, soaking wet. She searches his eyes imploringly. Still nothing. Nothing. Not a word nor gesture. Not so much as a troubled sigh.
He’s in shock? She surmises. “Let me get that disgusting shirt off of you. Maybe once you’re in dry clothes…” She unbuttons his shirt and slips it off his arms. Cut up and repurposed, there’s enough fabric to fashion a schooner’s headsail. She holds the shirt up and examines it. “So much blood. I’ll never get it all out.” She ponders a moment. “Maybe if I let it soak. I know you like this one. It’s one of your favorites. Let’s see if I can salvage it.” Holding the blood-soaked shirt with her fingertips out and away from her body, she carries it over to the kitchen sink. A sudden flash of lightning turns the kitchen to daylight. The strobe of white light turns the bloody shirt into a backlit projector screen with bright red streaks against a stark white background. “That must be close,” she says absentmindedly, then turns to Carl as thunder booms loudly. His freshly scrubbed face looks pale. She wonders if he’ll be okay. If he’ll make it to work in the morning. The mortgage payment is coming due. Please, Carl. Pull yourself together. Once more to the sink, she places the stopper in the drain, fills it with water, and pours in a cup of bleach. She drops the big shirt in the solution and watches as it soaks up the liquid and sinks, immediately imparting a pink hue to the water. “I hope that does it.”
Carl is still in the chair, unable to move. Catatonic.
Shock, definitely shock. “I’ll put on a kettle,” she says in an encouraging voice. “A hot cup of tea is what you need. I’ll get you a clean dry shirt, and you’ll be as good as new. Then you can tell me all about it. You poor thing, you’re a bundle of nerves.” She seems pleased with herself, as if she’s arrived at a reasonable course of action. He’ll be okay, she tells herself. Reassures herself. He just needs a little time. Fearing the worst, a tear escapes. She turns away to hide it from him and dabs it away with her sweatshirt sleeve before filling the kettle. “It’ll just be a few minutes, honey.” She should’ve noticed but hasn’t. Her sweatshirt is not only soaking wet but bloody from cleaning her husband. “Look at me. I’m an absolute fright,” she says on her way out of the kitchen. “Sit tight. I’ll be right—”
Three hard-knuckled raps on the front door halt her dead in her tracks.
She cringes. “Oh. Who’s that?”
She looks at Carl. He offers no opinion. She rotates toward the door, then back. Tentative. Unsure of what to do. “Carl, what are we going to do?”
His mouth agape, a whoosh of air sails past his lips.
“Did you say something?” she asks, hopeful, imploring him for advice. “I don’t know what to do.” Her shoulders heave. “Please help me. Tell me what to do.” He slouches in the chair—not so much slouches as settles. Her facade slips. “You’re so damn useless. Can’t you even…?”
She takes a few steps toward the front door, then stops, collects herself, and presses on. She pulls a robe off the coat hook and covers her bloody, soaking-wet sweatshirt.
An unfeeling voice booms outside as she inches the remaining distance to the door. The tone is callous enough to turn her blood to stone. “Los Angeles Police Department.”
She puffs rapidly, natural-birth breaths to disperse her panic. Within moments, her pulse has dropped to a steady eighty. Her expression is masked, serene. Lightning flashes as she cracks the threshold. No more than a few inches. Just enough to see out. A police officer in raingear stands before her. Her expression registers mild surprise.
“Hello, Mrs. Morgan,” the officer says with blunt familiarity and a cocked brow. His face is bathed in a shadow that paints him grimly. Rain drips from his hat.
“Officer Stanley, what are you doing out on such a ghastly night? How can I…?”
He stares past her, into the house. “Everything alright in there?” he asks but doesn’t. He knows something, senses it. He’s been on the job long enough to be suspicious when suspicion is warranted, long enough to smell a festering rat.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
The storm clouds shift. No longer than a heartbeat. Moonlight floods into the foyer. He scans the interior, left to right, then up and down. His eyes lock onto something, something telling. “I’m coming in,” he declares. Not waiting for an invitation, he places his open palms flat against the heavy wood door. He pushes her and the door aside with a forceful shove. Once inside, his hand travels swiftly to his service weapon.
“Why are you here?” she shouts, chest heaving, eyes wild at the sight of his weapon.
“I think you know, Molly. Where’s Carl? I need to speak with him. Now!”
“Oh, he’s…” Her eyes dart back and forth evasively. “He’s here.”
“Get him!”
“Of course,” she says, trembling, before turning toward the kitchen. She calls out calmly, “Oh, Carl. Can you come to the door?” She waits patiently. Nothing in her demeanor betrays her intent until she wheels around, slipping a kitchen knife from her housecoat sleeve so fluidly her action appears rehearsed.
“Drop it!” Stanley shouts with his gun leveled at her eyes. “Drop it now.” His blood runs cold at the sound of her scream as she slashes at him, swinging the large knife like a sickle harvesting stalks of grain. Stanley is a veteran, savvy, but no longer quick and certainly not agile. The razor-edged knife cuts his arm, ripping flesh, muscles, tendons. His grip contracts reflexively. The gun bucks in his hand.
#
Stanley’s ears still ringing from the sound of gunfire. He looks up at a shattered streetlamp lens directly above them while an EMS technician works on his arm. His fist is locked, his fingertips welded to his palm. He can’t release his grip. Except for the lights on the police vehicles, the street is dark and gloomy. Meddlesome neighbors congregate in the shadows, watching from beyond the taped police perimeter as personnel move in and out of the Morgan house. One body has already been carried out encapsulated in a black vinyl body bag. Gossip spreads that it’s only the first of two. Like devastating California wildfires, an old rumor spreads. Chinwaggers whisper that Molly Morgan has tried to poison her husband in the past but no one has been able to confirm the allegation, going so far as to stalk her as she walks down the street. But she’s learned to walk staring straight ahead, avoiding probing eyes, questions, and accusations.
Stanley’s pretty sure he knows which kid threw the rock that demolished the streetlamp. Not a bad kid, but one that always manages to find trouble. They should put him on the pitcher’s mound, he muses. With an aim like that, he could paint the corners of the strike zone. It’s not the first time he’s put out that streetlight and he’s heard the city is none too happy about fixing it again. They’re taking their sweet time sending someone out to perform the redundant repair.
A twinge shoots through Stanley’s arm. His eyes flash at the sensation. That felt weird. “You almost done?” he asks.
“That should do it,” the EMS guy says as he applies a final strip of adhesive tape, sealing the bandage he’s wrapped around Stanley’s arm. “You’re okay for now, but you’ll need surgery. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a lacerated nerve. That’s why your fingers locked down on the trigger.” He rubs his chin, musing, “You know, in a way, that crazy lady shot herself.”
“It happened so fast. I didn’t think I’d fired deliberately, but at a time like that… You know, things happen. Almost twenty years on the job and I’ve never fired on anyone. I wonder if the review board will keep my record intact.”
The EMS guy shrugs. “How exactly would that work? You did pull the trigger.”
Stanley’s shoulders heave. “They’d call it accidental discharge. Happens during altercations sometimes.”
“Uh-huh,” the EMS guy says in a dubious manner. He purses his lips, takes a moment to think about what he’s heard, then lets it go. “Do you want something for the pain?”
“Got anything stiff? Jack Daniels, maybe?”
“Don’t you wish,” the EMS guy says with a roll of his eyes. “Tylenol with codeine is about the strongest I’ve got.”
“Nah. I pass kidney stones the size of bowling balls regular as a Swiss watch. This little nick ain’t nothing compared with that. I’m wondering how much downtime I’m looking at?”
“Months. Probably several. Healing time. Physical therapy…”
“I suppose I’ll probably have to re-qualify at the shooting range.”
Their heads turn at the sound of a jovial voice. “Oh, boo-hoo. Stanley,” Lieutenant Tubbs says, greeting them. “You’re a lucky SOB.” He places a compassionate hand on Stanley’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alright. I watched your body cam feed on the way over. That was a close call, brother.”
“Guess it ain’t my time yet, LT.”
“Amen to that,” Tubbs says, gazing at Stanley’s bandaged arm. “That little scratch might push you past the twenty-year mark. If you time it right, you can go from disability straight into retirement. If you want to, that is. Or you can stay on the job like a dumbass and tussle with wackos like the late Molly Malone.”
“I’ll be up front if you need me,” the EMT guy says as he moves off. “Let me know if you change your mind on the pain meds, officer.”
Stanley affirms with a nod. “Hey, LT, you take a look around inside yet?” he asks, his expression painting a dire picture of the crime scene he encountered after checking Molly Morgan for a pulse and radioing command. Having spotted blood spatter on Molly’s cheek while standing at the door, his intuition told him to prepare for the worst. The worst is exactly what he saw. The murder victim was slouched in a kitchen chair, shirtless, his upper body bathed in blood. Throat cut. The stone kitchen tiles were awash in it. “She hit the carotid artery. Must’ve blown like a geyser.”
“Gross,” Tubbs says, retching for effect. “To think anyone could do that to another human being. Makes me sick to my stomach.”
“Oh, come on, LT. You some kind of crime scene virgin? I know you’ve seen worse.”
“Maybe I have, but that doesn’t mean it gets any easier.” Tubbs reaches into his pocket for a stick of gum, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth. He offers one to Stanley, who declines with a shake of the head. “That poor bastard. I had to jump out of the way. He tumbled out of the chair the moment I walked into the kitchen. Just missed landing on me.” Tubbs looks down. His shoes are rain-slick and unmarked, but there’s a streak of blood across his pant leg. “Looks like he got me after all.”
Stanley shakes his head with dismay. “As I remember, she made two prior attempts on his life.”
“That we know of,” Tubbs interjects. “Trips to the ER that were documented. Poison both times, right?”
“I think so. She swore they were accidents and I guess he wanted to believe her. I could see it happening once … maybe. But twice? Not a chance in hell. I guess she figured she’d try something new. Three times a charm. Ain’t that what they say? Gave up on rat poison and went at him with a kitchen knife. Cut the poor bastard ear-to-ear.”
Tubbs listens intently, chewing on Stanley’s assessment and the gum simultaneously. The gum must be old. His jawbones jut from his cheeks as he grinds it into a pulp.
“All the abuse he must’ve taken from her over the years—attempts on his life.” Stanley rubs his bandaged arm. Seems concerned. “LA’s a big city, but I’ve patrolled this neighborhood a long time. I remember when the Morgans first moved in. I used to see Carl jogging through the park from time to time. He dressed smart. Held his head high. Got to wonder what the hell happened.”
“Sometimes crazy is all there is.” Tubbs rolls his neck. “People snap. Someone can be perfectly normal one moment and go stark-raving mad the next. I’ll make sure the coroner digs into her records for prior psych evaluations.”
Stanley spots a kid ducking under the police tape for a closer look. It’s the kid he believes busted the streetlamp. Wouldn’t have any trouble seeing if the streetlight was working, he muses. His cheekbones rise as he refocuses on Tubbs. “I know the guy let himself go, but he could’ve done much better for himself. Should have. I mean, the way that man went downhill.” Stanley rattles his head sadly. “God forgive me for saying this, but I think he’s better off dead.”
Tubbs squeezes his eyes shut, then exhales long and low through his nostrils. “And still he stayed.”
“And still he stayed,” Stanley echoes. “That were me, I’d have taken out an order of protection and lit out for parts unknown.”
“I guess he never saw it coming. Probably never thought she’d murder him in cold blood.”
“I wonder if maybe she doped him to get the drop on him? Wouldn’t be the first time she put something in his food,” Stanley says. “I imagine switching from rat poison to tranquilizers isn’t much of a stretch.”
“I guess not. They’re both growing cold, so what’s it really matter? Who called it in anyway?”
Stanley points at the house next door. “One of the women from the shelter called 911.” Someone nearby catches his eye. “Her,” he says pointing to a flyspeck of a woman. Her coat swims on her and hangs down to her knees. Her jeans are fitted but painfully short as if they’re a kid’s hand-me-downs. She stares at the house as if waiting for it to give up its truth, a truth the Morgans have taken to their graves.
“Miss. Oh, Miss,” Stanley calls out. “You mind stepping over here for a minute?”
“Me?” she asks, pointing to herself.
Stanley waves her over.
It’s dark. Hard to see her face. She walks with her head hung low. She’s learned to be unobtrusive. To be invisible.
“What’s up?” she asks. She makes eye contact. Looks strained. Her expression says, make it quick.
“This is Lieutenant Tubbs,” Stanley says. “You mind telling him what you told me before?” Stanley’s memory is good but in all the turmoil has misplaced her name. It’s hardly run of the mill. “…Tajana, isn’t it?”
Mild irritation surfaces. She’s faceless and nameless to the members of the community. To them, she’s part of the blight the state has dumped in their laps. She doesn’t bother to confirm her name. “I got to do this again?” she asks in a raspy voice. “I done told you what I know.”
“It was very courageous of you to call 911,” Tubbs says, trotting out a fatherly smile, the one he uses to loosen lips. “A lot of people bury their heads in the sand and wait for someone else to do what needs to be done. So, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d really like to hear what happened. In your own words.”
She looks from one police officer to the other. They both gaze at her expectantly. She’s annoyed but doesn’t see that she has a choice. “As I said the first time, I couldn’t sleep. Two of the girls in my room snore like water buffalo, and I’m a light sleeper.” She reaches into one of her oversized pockets and withdraws a vape, puts it to her mouth, and takes a deep drag. “I was at the window watching the storm. It was crazy. Lit up Southeast LA like a Christmas tree. One big one came real close and turned night into day. I could see right into the kitchen next door and that crazy-ass woman was standing over Carl.” She shutters her eyes momentarily. “Blood everywhere.”
“Carl?” Tubbs asks. “You knew the victim?”
Sadness weeps from her eyes. “Uh-huh. He stops by time-to-time to see if we need anything. That man is the only decent soul in the neighborhood. Only one who gives a damn about us.” Another quick drag on the vape. Expels vapor into the night. “Most of the people around here treat us like we don’t exist. Like we ain’t people.”
“I see,” Tubbs says. “Exactly what did Mr. Morgan do for you ladies?”
“Changed light bulbs. Fixed dripping faucets and what have you. That kind of thing. City services don’t do jack for us but give us lip service. Say they’ll get around to this and that but no one ever shows up to do the work.”
“Mr. Morgan ever talk about his wife?” Stanley asks. “Any problem with his relationship he shared with you?”
“He didn’t talk about his wife, but it wasn’t hard to see how unhappy he was. He’d stop by to help us and I could see he needed comforting, too. Poor man was so lonely.” She pouted. “I couldn’t hardly bear to see him like that.”
Stanley and Tubbs lock eyes. “Go on,” Tubbs says, doing his best to conceal his piqued curiosity.
“The few times I’ve seen Carl and his missus together, it sure didn’t look like there was much love in their relationship. Know what I mean? One of them marriages of necessity.”
“You see that a lot these days,” Tubbs says. “Mortgage payments. Car payments. Everything’s so damn expensive. You need two oars in the water just to get by.” He notices Stanley grimace. Sees the strain on his face. “You hanging in there, brother?”
Fatigue registers on Stanley’s face. “We good for now, LT?” He’s not afraid of a little pain. Thought he could handle it. He was wrong. “I need a skilled surgeon and a magician of an anesthesiologist.”
“That bad, huh? Get going,” Tubbs says without hesitation. “Take care of yourself.” He waits until Stanley is secured in the ambulance and it pulls away before turning back to her. “Tajana, anything you’d like to add at this time?”
Her gaze drifts. “Only that I’m gonna miss that big fat man. Can’t say he was any kind of eye candy, but I tell you what, he was funny as hell.” Her shoulders rise, then fall. “Lying on the floor with his big belly sticking out from the kitchen cabinet he used to fire off one joke after another. Had me doubled over laughing. Used to write sitcoms for a living, until…”
“Until?”
“Network muckety mucks said no one appreciates his brand of humor anymore. Demoted him to some flunky-level position.”
“That’s too bad. Making people laugh, that’s a gift.”
“Sure enough is. Most of us gals in the shelter don’t have a lot to live for.” She lifts the vape. Pauses. Something’s on her mind. “Everyone around here thinks we’re all hoes and crack addicts. But some of the ladies inside went to fancy schools. Owned businesses. Being down on your luck don’t make you a piece of garbage. That man’s visits brightened our day and I think spending time with us made him happy too.”
The rain slows to an intermittent sprinkle. The storm was a fluke, a quick spike on an otherwise flat barometric graph. Within a week any plant that soaked up a hasty drink will turn brown again. Tubbs slides off his hat and runs his fingers through his tightly cropped salt and pepper hair. Shrugs. Laments, “Poor SOB. I still don’t understand why he stayed with her?”
“Why he what?” she asks, surprised by the question.
“Why he stayed with his wife?” Tubbs says, puzzled by her confusion. “After two near brushes with death, what the hell was he waiting for?”
Tajana’s torso is shrouded by the oversized hand-me-down coat. She unbuttons it, displaying her badge of honor. Strokes her baby bump affectionately. “He didn’t stay for that no-good witch,” she declares emphatically. “He stayed for us.”
END
