Chapter Six - Games People Play

More the rule than the exception, weekdays at Whispering Willow were genuinely boring and uneventful. For a few days after the retail excursion and the unfortunate robbery incident, life became predictable again. Even Neville’s demeanor, in light of the humiliation and pain he must have experienced, was uncharacteristically upbeat, as some of the staff noted.

Of course, they’d never connect the dots that the deaths of the two teens, which police reported back to them, were intentional. So the true reason for the resident grouch’s sudden suspension of outright hostility – his satisfaction of knowing he still had “the goods” – would never be revealed.

For him, the baiting of the hooligans along with the reactive chemical detonation, was further testament to his sharper-than-ever intellect. Through his long life, never feeling the most comfortable in his own skin, he had leaned on his brain to help him accomplish everything he set out to do. Most of what he set out to do remained a secret to the Whispering Willow constituency, except for a former intern who was now missing in action.

On Wednesday afternoon, he heard an unusually high amount of screaming. However, unlike many of the screams he’d encountered through the years, these were not in response to any actions of his own. During this particular afternoon, the squeals, shrieks and yells were associated with arranging coins on a game board and calling out “BINGO!”

Neville sat along the outer wall of the activity room, alternating between his newspaper, the television and the group of twenty or so residents lined around the tables. He kept his eye on his roommate, Duncan, who seemed out of sorts, calling out “Bingo” multiple times, while consistently being disproven. Today’s personality, Neville thought, must not be familiar with the game. But at least he was fully clothed.

“Bingo!” yelled his roommate again. He watched as one of the staff came over and traced his coins while another recalled the numbers. It was another false alarm. And even the sweetest, kindest elderly game players were wondering if they could keep him from showing up next time.

“I could’ve swore I had it that time,” he said.

When Clara walked by and asked him how he felt after the fall and if he was getting used to his walker, Neville surprised her with the simplest of responses – “fine.”

“Wasn’t it horrible what happened to those two boys?” she asked, expecting him to agree.

“Was it?” he responded. Her brow tightened and she blinked. He folded up his paper and looked at her.

“They were rude and obnoxious,” he said. “They pushed me to the ground.”

“I’m not excusing it,” she countered. “But they’re still somebody’s babies.”

“Somebody could have done a better job at parenting,” he concluded. “If you are looking for tears in these eyes, you won’t find any.”

By now, he was tired of talking and rubbed his eyes. Clara had no clue of his involvement in the explosion, but still, her response was a pretty poor thank you very much, he thought. That frustration with what he felt like was the shallow hypocrisy of human emotion was one of his largest obstacles to true social interactivity. Neville truly believed that deep down, Clara was relieved the hooligans had received their just desserts, but she wasn’t honest enough with herself to admit it. He was. And yes, that made him a more advanced person.

Morals were not the heartbeat of his decision-making. His storied life had been more marked by the lack thereof. In similar situations played out dozens of times prior, the targets receiving the brunt of his rage were not necessarily hooligans but many were law-abiding, good-hearted citizens who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. For him, it was nothing personal, most of the time, just business. A means to an end.

He preferred well-timed explosions as weapons, which allowed him a safe distance from the victims, saving him from the spectacle that is desperation. Up close, his targets would bargain, beg and recount all the multiple reasons for him to deliver mercy. It never swayed him but like a broken record, melodrama that was grated on his nerves.

One middle-aged man nervously explained that was on the verge of greatness, soon to sign a recording contact that would make him a superstar. If Neville would allow him to go free, he said, he would be a much more valuable asset to draw from. Calling his bluff, Neville humorously demanded an impromptu audition, enduring as many sour notes as he could before administering the cruelest of all rejections.

How he reconciled that relentless aggression toward the innocent was the simple fact that he believed, if the roles were reversed, with the power and gold in sight, they might also make the same choice. They were not that different from him at all. His gift, his brain, afforded him a vantage point only a few others would ever see.

His most gratifying coup, carried out decades prior, was more personal than business. It involved a major player, a giant of a man getting in the way of his business. More than that, his victim was someone who believed in leveling the playing field, siding with the underdogs instead of profiting from them. Like Neville, he towered above the others in abilities and intellect, but his weakness was the incredible guilt Neville assumed he must have felt in his superiority that prompted him to surrender his ambitions to their service. And they manipulated him like a child, cheering when he got it right and verbally tearing him apart in the public square when he didn’t.

Sure, when Captain Horizon was finally gone, the world stopped, sobbed and carried on a big program. Memorials were constructed, documentaries were devised and even a federally-mandated holiday was instituted, right alongside Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day. Socially speaking, however, humankind got along just as well without his interference as it did with. Even some of the worst elements he faced seemed were gone, with at least one living a long, quasi-normal life surrounded by fellow geriatrics and an occasional homicide.

It was ironic that a life like Neville’s would be slowly fading away. He had always fancied himself as one who would be carried away in a blaze of glory. Fate, he surmised, had other plans. Although the home had its prison-like qualities, he had escaped the possibility of spending the remainder of his life on display for fellow hardened criminals and studied by the national media. After the “final conflict,” so to speak, he was barely left standing and nursed back to health by a wife who had been otherwise naïve. Her lack of protest in discovering the previously-hidden layer of his life was due as much to fear as it was love. But it was all just as well.

The battle had nearly destroyed him as it did his nemesis, yet for some reason he was spared. He crawled away from the wreckage after examining his opponent for any signs of life. It would be years until he would regain the strength to consider his health normal again, but by that time, age was catching up, bringing about its own set of obstacles. Ultimately, however, he found he had nothing left to prove. Unlike the fallen hero, he didn’t perform for the masses.

As it was with other residents of the home, he had his own story of loss, although his story remained hidden. He privately recalled the day cancer finally claimed the life of his Catherine. Her passing sealed his anonymity and she took the small piece of what she actually knew of his history to her grave.

Years later, connected only to a single nephew and requiring more care than anyone was willing to give, he retreated to the halls of a quiet, unassuming assisted living facility.

The irony of his environment was not lost on him, especially in light of the history of his residential manager, a subject he knew far more about than he revealed. Neville’s health was now supervised by a woman who received a second chance from a savior Neville ultimately destroyed. The world is full of “what ifs,” but it the dynamics of his life truly hung on a thin thread of surprising coincidence. These were the secrets that would ultimately perish with him.

He’d never expose the details of the mystery to Carol or anyone else, not out of panic of getting caught, but to avoid a confrontation his opponent would ultimately lose. He knew the odds of getting a replacement less intrusive than Carol were slim and in his cranky old age, he truly despised change. The devil he knew would suffice.

His reluctance to publicly revel in his wickedness also had nothing to do with any type of fondness for her. For him, it was, as it had been throughout his life, business. Still, he amused himself in his dreams, imagining pulling the proverbial curtain back to reveal who he truly was. Within a feeble shell of wrinkles and brittle bones, he was the one person who had rocked the world and Carol’s life in particular, not only having extinguished the bright hope that was Captain Horizon but serving as the cruel architect of the explosion that sent her family’s car plummeting off the bridge.

The blood of the two most important men in Carol’s life was on his hands. Unlike him, he knew she wouldn’t appreciate his amusement at one of life’s most astonishing coincidences.

Chapter Five - Shop Til You Drop

“I am so sick of superheroes!”

Henry’s friends chuckled while finishing up their lunches. The four teens huddled up at a food court table at the Galleria Mall on a Sunday afternoon within earshot of Neville, who occupied a lonely table, sipping his soup.

“It’s like that’s all you ever hear about anymore. All these movies coming out, all these TV shows – do they think we’re all into that kids stuff? ‘Look at me – I’m flying around in a cape and spandex!’ Big deal!”

 “Have your parents ever told you about Captain Horizon?” one of the teens interjected and others groaned. The name caused Neville to turn his head to better adjust his eavesdropping.

“Aww, man, please don’t start on that. I am so sick of hearing about that guy. Don’t you think it was just a media creation or something? Seriously, if there was this superhero who bit the dust long before any of us ever got here, why aren’t there any more?”

“And what kind of superhero just dies, anyway?” another responded. “Must not have been a very good one.”

Two the teens smacked hands while Neville smiled, turning his direction back toward the larger collection of tables. He saw a few of his fellow residents scattered around the food court, one or two still standing in lines trying to decide on what to eat for lunch.

Neville’s appearance at the mall was odd, to say the least. Normally, an excursion into the retail abyss  would rank last on his list of activities, even behind acupuncture and urinary catheterization. He preferred the privacy the home afforded and despised encounters with up-and-coming generations of disrespectful hooligans.

Nearly two hours earlier, as she has done a few times in the past, Carol knocked on the door prior to departure and, as usual, Neville refused the invitation.

“Well, hello, Mr. Ramsey,” Carol said cheerfully. “How are you doing?”

Neville cut eyes her way, took a deep breath and began.

“I suppose there could be worse things than a roommate like Mr. Cleary but I can’t think of any offhand,” he said. “I can’t even tie my own shoes and he’s asked me to drop and do pushups at least four times. He also does a pretty good impression of a frightened little boy when the lights were dimmed and he then asked me for the next twenty-some-odd minutes to come look under his bed for a monster.”

She froze her face to prevent a smile, while at the same time surprised at the amount of conversation.

“I know there’s a room that’s open – move him in there and out of my way!”

She couldn’t do it, not only for the reason she’d give but for a reason she wouldn’t give - Eunice was coming.

“Mr. Cleary isn’t in his right frame of mind, as you’ve discovered,” she said. “I moved him in with you so you can help keep an eye on him. He doesn’t need to be a private room.”

His blood pressure began to rise so he diverted his attention toward the television.

“There’s a group headed to the mall in a bit. The van will be out front if you’d like to go.”

He didn’t respond, still seething from the rejection of his request. Clenching his dentures, he stared at the television newscast, until the door shut behind her. The newscaster continued a discussion on Middle East foreign policy, but Neville’s eyes were glazed over, instead mentally scrapping with himself and weighing his options.

The bathroom door opened and Duncan emerged, dripping water from head to toe, soaking the floor beneath him. Without even so much as a towel, he stood completely nude, like a child escaping from a tub before the bath was over.

“I can’t find my underwear,” he remarked, still dripping all over the floor. “Do you know where Mom put it?”

It was precisely at this moment when a trip to the Gallery Mall seemed unusually attractive. Doing his best to completely ignore his exposed roommate, Neville gathered a few things, tucked in his shirt and made his way to the front lobby.

Several of his fellow residents were startled to see him boarding the van but none were quite as surprised at Carol, who also discovered an unusual feeling of pride. Perhaps her cajoling was paying off. Sure, it wasn’t a complete transformation but it was indeed progress.

Around a dozen or so residents made the outing. It was the type of activity that some managers relegated solely to other staff but Carol enjoyed seeing the residents reconnect with the outside world. It was refreshing to see them in normal surroundings. And she also really enjoyed smoothies.

Many had come to walk but a few had just come to sit and shop. While the group exited the van, Carol noticed Neville staring at her knapsack.

“No, it’s not a purse,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t ask. “I carry a few first aid items in here – bandages, medicine, even a portable oxygen tank if anyone gets winded. I’ve learned my lessons about that. I’ll tell you like I tell all the others – if you’re going to walk, don’t overdo it, especially with your bad leg.”

He wouldn’t dream of it. He was just hoping for a little peace and quiet away from the home and perhaps a quick visit to the bookstore. During his lunch, he deliberately sat as far away from the others as possible and still the annoying bubbly Clara and her friend Beatrice eventually landed nearby.

The two ladies carried on their conversation despite the obnoxiously loud teenagers Neville had eavesdropped on … until one of the youths lit a cigarette and began blowing smoke. Under hushed whispers, Clara asked her friend, “Is smoking allowed in the mall? I didn’t think so.”

Combating the smoke, Clara’s friend waved her napkin in front of her face. She tried to keep from coughing but the smoke was choking her a bit. Neville noticed this and brushed it off to theatrics.

Henry, the smoker, noticed it, too, and stood up from his chair. His shirt, advertising the latest industrial rock rage, was complemented by his multiple tattoos and piercings, framing him as a perfect contrast with the two matronly ladies finishing their meal. He stopped at their table, holding his cigarette. They looked up at him, smiling.

The encounter was being carefully studied both by Neville and Henry’s friends. The teens elbowed each other, giggling and commenting his conduct while Neville was curiously left with mixed emotions on who to root for. He strongly despised Clara’s sunshiney demeanor, but at the same time, he shared that intense disdain with uncultured modern teenagers.

After inhaling, Henry bent down and blew smoke in the middle of the two women before walking back to his table. His friends erupted in laughter and Neville’s eyes got wider. As Clara and Beatrice coughed and teared up, Henry suddenly noticed the scrawny old man staring at him.

“Hey, what are you looking at, old timer? You want a puff, too?”

Henry looked at his friends and smiled, taking another puff. He had gone too far to turn back now. He motioned for them to get up and leave the table. As he walked by Neville’s table, he kicked the old man’s cane across the floor and flicked what was left of his cigarette in the soup bowl.

Now Neville suddenly remembered why he never came to the mall anymore. He sat for a moment, stunned and humiliated, a prisoner within a shell of a body that couldn’t respond to such attacks. He wallowed in the pity of what could have been and what once was. Adding insult to injury, he noticed Clara walking to his table with his cane.

She smiled warmly, handed him his cane and said, “thank you!”

Could this day get any worse? 

An hour later, the group of elderly residents gathered at tables near the door, ready for a return to the home. Smoothie in hand, Carol counted heads and laughed with Bill, who had bought a new pack of candy to share with those who stayed behind.

Sitting in a chair near the group who waited on stragglers, Neville clutched his cane and hoped to go back and pretend this outing never happened. He grimaced when he observed Clara and Beatrice giving their dramatic presentations of what had unfolded earlier.

Beyond Carol, Neville noticed the young punk, Henry, and one of his friends standing on the outside of the entry, talking on a cell phone. He assumed the group had been confronted about smoking indoors and were now taking their cigarette break outside.  Or maybe they were seeking more elderly victims to harass.

A moment later, the final resident arrived and the group began its journey to the van.  As some of the residents exited the doors, Carol suddenly remembered she’d left her bag sitting in one of the chairs during the long wait. Caught between helping those to the van and the knapsack, she stood in the door and called to Neville, who was intentionally dragging behind.

“Mr. Ramsey, can you bring my bag?”

In true fashion, he glared, and yet still turned around to pick it up. With the knapsack on his shoulder, he turned to once again notice the troublemakers outside the doors.  Clara poked Carol’s arm, identifying Henry, who was still on his cell phone. He noticed Carol’s gaze and in turn made an obscene gesture. His friend giggled.

The two teens thought the entire group had all filed out of the mall when they were surprised to see Neville exiting by himself. Henry’s friend noticed a stack of bills in the old man’s right hand, which Neville began tucking into the knapsack, purposefully ignoring the duo. Henry’s friend whispered into his ear.  

As he stepped off the curb, Neville was suddenly pushed to the asphalt and the knapsack yanked from his arm. From across the parking lot, some of the residents saw it, alerting Carol, who was helping them into the vehicle.  She ran toward Neville, yelling at the two young men who were running to a car. Within seconds, the teens’ car had started and skidded out of the parking lot.

For the second time in a week, Carol saw Neville sprawled on the ground, except this time the fall occurred with extreme force. She bent over, pulling tissues from her purse to wipe blood from new wounds. Neville’s body throbbed in pain but he held his composure as much as possible. He was once again experiencing agonizing pain, this time even more compounded with helplessness. As recently as ten years ago, he imagined, he’d be able to take the teens in hand to hand combat. As he laid face down on the pavement, that time was clearly in the past.

In a normal healthy body, when one appendage fails, other limbs become stronger, as they pick up the slack. In Neville’s fragile state, he had exhausted every ounce of energy from his body, so he instead relied on his sharper-than-ever intellect that had been driven to madness with hatred. To him, it was a gift that had helped him outlive many adversaries regardless of age.

His newest victims were no different. From the moment the two teens grabbed the knapsack, they unknowingly had only minutes to live. Less than two miles away, barreling down the interstate, the oxygen escaping from the broken nozzle on the mini-tank would ignite with the open flame on the end of Henry’s cigarette, causing an explosion heard even on the other side of the median.  

Once again riddled with pain and stickered with bandages, Neville was propped against the window on the van ride home. When he spotted the fruits of his labor, a big black cloud of smoke erupting from a hollowed-out sedan, he decided that It really wasn’t such a bad day after all.

Chapter Four - Second Chances

The sun was barely peeking through, highlighting an orange skyline, when Carol’s car pulled up to Whispering Willow. Fully rested from her day off, she carried a small bag of fast food breakfast and coffee and walked briskly into the lobby. Thankfully, the hallways remained quiet, so she could eat her breakfast in peace.  

She startled Louise, who was sitting at the staff desk beside the hallway. After the initial shock, Carol patted her on the back and greeted her as she walked by: “Hey, girl.”

“Convenient of you to be gone the day Mr. Ramsey’s new roommate arrives,” Louise said, following her into her office while wiping her sleepy eyes. “Did you plan that?”

Carol smiled and gave a “who knows?” look, while sitting down and digging into her breakfast.

“How are they getting along?”

“It’s totally caught him off guard. I think he was hoping for someone less active…and in his right mind. We heard a little bit from him last night, threatening to have us all fired or something like that. But he calmed down later. He probably exhausted himself.”

Carol took a sip of her coffee.

“Have you heard anything from Linda? She didn’t show, hasn’t called, won’t answer her phone. She didn’t even sign out when she left the other day.”

Carol rolled her eyes. Linda’s track record was spotty at best but she’d always taken up for her. She was a bit of a party girl who stayed up late and called in sick frequently – “sick” as in “tired.” For some reason, Linda reminded her of herself, although the two were hardly alike.

It wasn’t even Linda’s first disappearance. She once ditched work when her friends made a surprise trip out of town. With no one to find any information about her, Carol used Linda’s credit card information to track down her last purchase, worried she was going to have to turn her in as a missing person. When she reached a very surprised Linda in a beachside hotel room, both women were furious and exchanged harsh accusations. That was close to the end of Linda’s time at the home, but somehow Carol managed to look beyond that episode. Her generosity, however, was wearing thin.

“I’ll call her. She may be having boyfriend problems, who knows. I’ll find out. Did Tammy come in, then?”

“Yeah, she’s very dependable.”

“Any other big news? Breakups? Declarations of love? Visiting families?”

“Nah, mostly a normal day.”

Carol started looking over reports on her desk but noticed Louise hadn’t moved. She looked up to see Louis staring at a framed picture behind her desk, a frequent source of fascination for her. The black and white photograph was a picture of Carol as a 12 year-old girl cradled by a man in a uniform. It was a black and white photo, a souvenir of a moment she’d never be able to forget.

“How often do you think about that?”

Carol’s smile disappeared, briefly replaced by a stern solemn expression. Louise mentally backtracked, realizing she had touched a nerve and wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. Even so many years later, the day was never just a memory, but a life-changer, splitting her childhood in two.

“At least once a day, more if I’m around Momma,” she replied. Suddenly aware of the mood, she snapped back into her happy-go-lucky attitude. “You know how she is, she can’t tell a story too many times. Did I tell you she’s coming? Everyone in this home will know all about it.”

“Well, look at this way,” Louise responded. “Some of these folks won’t remember from one time to the next. We’ll get tired of it, but they won’t.”

               

The story of October 12, 1968 didn’t need any of Carol’s mother’s many signature exaggerations, although she provided them regardless. For a day that delivered such tragic consequence, Eunice managed to stay mostly upbeat during recollections, due either to the amount of times she’d told it or a statement on her nature itself.

Well over four decades ago, twelve year-old Carol suffered with a serious case of pneumonia so severe it required a week in the downtown children’s hospital. Her mother and father took turns putting in their own work hours and attending her beside, until her lungs had finally returned to normal and she was discharged.

The moment both of her parents marched her out of the city hospital was one of the happiest memories of her life. It was the light at the end of a long tunnel and she was finally able to let go of the fears generated by the long nights in a dark hospital room. At first, she thought of the stay as a grand adventure, with nurses being so kind to deliver soft drinks and ice cream, not to mention non-stop cartoons. A few days later, however, she begged and cried to return home every night.

On the drive home, Carol’s father, Samuel, told her about all the phone calls and letters that had been received at home. Little Carol already sat on the backseat beside plants, balloons and stuffed animals that had recently decorated her room. She asked about Poochie, the family dog, and wondered how glad he’d be to see her again. She’d really missed Poochie, since pets weren’t allowed visiting hours. She also inquired to make sure Deborah, who was currently at school, hadn’t gone snooping in her room. Even all these years later, she strongly remembers the song playing on the radio, coupled with her father’s serenade.

“I guess, you say, what can make me feel this way? My girlsss.”

He’d always turn it plural, grinning while he sang.

As the car crossed a bridge, time seemed to stop and both Carol and Eunice struggle with a coherent account of it to this day. The metal bridge beneath them buckled, catching Carol’s stomach and causing her to lose her breath. Within seconds, a fireball erupted in front of the car and Samuel reacted by instantly slamming on the brakes. The car’s tires skidded toward the firestorm but began slowing down.  

The radio blared…”I’ve got so much honey, the bees envy me…”

A few feet in front of their car, which had stopped, the bridge separated and large chunk of it fell. Nearby, other cars pummeled into the steel side walls and into each other. Screams competed with the sound of cables popping and what sounded like bombs. Having just studied the end of the world in Sunday School, Carol wondered if they were in the middle of Armageddon. Still, in her pre-teen mind and experiencing her own shock, she felt a sense of immortality, like she was watching everything unfold on a movie screen. Ultimately, she believed she’d be safe.

“I’ve got a sweeter song that the birds in the trees.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Samuel spotted in the rear view mirror a car swerving but moving full speed ahead, headed toward them. It slammed into their backside, forcing their vehicle off the edge of the bridge’s south side. The car spun, plummeting more than a hundred feet. For Carol, the drop was an eternity, occurring in slow motion. The balloons, plants and suitcase were airborne.

“I don’t need no money, fortune or fame…”

The Buick crashed into the freezing waters below, jarring their bodies. Unsecured by a seatbelt, Carol landed on the interior ceiling – broken, bruised and bloody – and surrounded by the river’s waters outside of the window. In the last few moments before things became really blurry, Carol felt the chilly waters begin rushing around her while she struggled to find air. She screamed for help, noticing her barely-aware mother and her father, hanging motionless from his seatbelt.  

“What can make me feel this way?.....”

When Eunice retells the story, she’ll elaborate on how, even in that semi-conscious state, she managed to formulate prayers for Carol and Samuel. She thought of Carol’s future – her high school graduation, falling in love, marriage…She couldn’t bear to think of it cut short, worse yet with her left to survive alone.

Today, when Eunice mentions that moment and those prayers specifically, she’ll shift more attention to the one that was answered than to the one that was not. The unanswered prayer was still between her and God, a question she’d ultimately discuss with Him face to face, not for everyone else to analyze or offer their opinions. If it was truly her turn to be Job, she’d prefer not to have sloppy advice from amateur philosophers, certainly none to tell her “curse God and die.”

October 12 was the day Eunice lost her Samuel and Carol lost her father. That alone makes it infamous to all who knew the kind-hearted, hard-working family man. For over forty years, his grave received fresh flowers on this day, mostly from Carol, Deborah and Eunice, but also from friends in his small community.

Beyond their personal loss and the lives of ten other people, October 12 captured the world’s attention for its surprising second-half, what one radio broadcaster famously dubbed “the mind-blowing rescue.”  

It could not have been more extraordinary, although Eunice and Carol would only hear the details secondhand. By the time they awakened, they were strapped to stretchers in the middle of a flurry of policemen, firemen, paramedics and reporters. While the dozens of responders worked hard to recover bodies and tend to the wounded, the mother and daughter owed their own lives to the efforts of just one man.

The picture of young Carol and her costumed savior hanging on the wall behind her desk once adorned the front pages of newspapers worldwide. Long considered a myth or media creation, it was one of his most unforgettable public appearances and the first time many people ever saw a superhuman.

Shattering the limited understanding of what a human body can accomplish, the man the public called Captain Horizon propelled himself into the chilly waters after the car a few seconds after impact. Eyewitnesses were barely able to recognize the black and red blur, which many at first assumed to be something mechanical. Once underwater, he swam underneath, pushing the car back above the surface. To onlookers, the car appeared to hover to a boat dock and they watched in disbelief as he lowered it back down onto its tires, water gushing from the door frames.  

Ripping the door off the handle as emergency vehicles arrived, the masked man reached inside and pulled the girl out. As he carried her toward the ambulance, the iconic snapshot was taken – the broken bloodied young girl in the strong arms of a soaked hero with a cape flapping in the wind. All that was missing was the Stars and Stripes in the background. He placed her in the arms of a paramedic and soon rocketed back into the waters to look for more survivors.

The young paramedic would later tell reporters that Captain Horizon was moderately out of breath with a look of urgency in his eyes. He was also embarrassed to only be able to muster up, “thank you, sir.”

The spectacle was something most had to see to believe and many did. Camera crews arrived to film the rescuer deliver more bodies, eventually receiving the help of arriving firefighters and onlookers. The most famous moment of all of Carol Leonard’s life, a day immortalized in volumes of science and history forever, and she didn’t remember a minute. It could have all been a dream, she considered, but it became painfully real at her father’s graveside.

In one of the more famous television interviews in the years following the event, a talk show host asked a teenage Carol what she might say to her rescuer if she had gotten the chance.

She had written down her statement on notebook paper, because she wanted to express herself correctly. With Eunice’s arm around her, Carol pulled out the note and gazed into the camera.

“When I think of what I lost and what I could have lost that day, I cry. We don’t know why bad things happen but I know I’m grateful when good things happen. I don’t know who you are and if you ever receive thanks in person, but you deserve more than that. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was darkness and water. When I opened my eyes, I saw the sun. Thank you, Captain Horizon, for saving our lives. You inspire us all to be heroes. I hope you’ll be proud of who I become.”

Carol held on to that note, folding it and placing it in a scrapbook of other clippings related to October 12. More than twenty years later, in the early nineties, she was compelled to dig through her storage boxes, find the scrapbook and place the note in an envelope. In more desperate times, she’d considered selling it to collectors but she was now very grateful to have kept it. She took off work, drove back into the city and stood in line for hours for her chance to present it.

When her moment came, she wiped away tears, walked up, knelt down and placed it on the grave of the man who had given her and her mother a second chance at life.  

Chapter Three - Misery Loves Company

Even the quietest of sanctuaries, stripped of buzzing alarm clocks or ringing telephones, can only go so far in allowing a person to sleep past their normal work hours. With her cell phone on vibrate and the clock securely silenced, Carol prepared for the hibernation that she’d been looking forward to all week.

What couldn’t be regulated so easily, she’d find out early on Friday morning, were the kidneys of her miniature pinscher, Molly. Mixed with her frustration, she felt a little bit guilty, knowing the dog had probably held out as long as she could before reaching a crisis moment and nudging her awake.

After letting Molly’s nature take its course, Carol began heating up some coffee while checking her cell phone. She noticed she’d missed a call from her sister, Deborah, and cued the voice mail.

“Hey, Carol, this is Deb. I guess you’re at work. I wanted to talk to you about mom. I think she’s had about enough of us as she can stand. She wanted me to call you, but I didn’t know if you were ready to take her on. Johnny’s at his wits end, but we can hold out as long as you need. Just let us know. We love you.”

Carol wasn’t completely caught off guard with the message – she knew the storm had been simmering, but Deborah had been so gracious to hold it off for a while during her own rough patch. Six months earlier, Carol’s newest boyfriend David had called off their relationship, sending her into a bit of an emotional tailspin. She dove into work and rid herself of any semblance of a social life, outside of Sunday mornings at church when her schedule allowed.

Depending on how needy her mother was, she could either stay with her at her tiny apartment or live at the home. She hoped for the latter, especially since her job consumed most of her time. She’d see her mother more than her dog and her mom would probably enjoy the activities and meeting other people. Now if she could bring Molly, Carol could entirely phase out a life outside of the facility.

She remained mostly positive about the possibility, the only negative being that it forced her to remember why Mom’s arrival had been postponed in the first place. Six months later, it could be that she’d breathe some new life into Carol’s life. As the oldest of four children, Carol had been the closest with her mom, until she moved in with Deb and Johnny after nearly passing out on a solo trip to the grocery store.

“I don’t know why yall making such a fuss over this,” she remembered hearing her mother say during the following Thanksgiving dinner after the incident. As a fiercely independent woman, the event had humbled her more than she let on, a transformation Carol had seen many times with the residents. Still, Deb was a trooper, stepping up to help out, even though Carol was the one most prepared for caretaking.

After a few minutes, Carol called her sister. They discussed the particulars of the move. During the conversation, she found out that hosting Mom had also heightened tensions in Deborah’s home. She felt bad about that, but chalked it up to another circumstance beyond her control. She told Deborah she’d work on making the necessary arrangements at the home while Deborah and Johnny decided on a good day to rendezvous.

More planning was taking place at Whispering Willow, even on Carol’s day off. Neville noticed strangers pausing beside his door as they walked down the hall, even catching a glimpse of one person walking out. He pretended to stare at the communal television, but kept the corner of his eye trained for a glimpse of the new roommate.

“I was married twice,” he heard Bill say and turned to see him sitting near. Distracted by the goings-on down the hall, he’d left himself wide open for Bill’s tractor beam of narratives. With the pain in his leg presently at full force, he decided to stay seated and listen. Bill’s nonstop stories were annoying but still there was something, dare he even think it, noble about them. He relaxed himself and listened.

“My first wife, I met after I graduated high school. Her parents were so strict, I had to have her home by 11. We were married forty-five years. She was a good woman.”

“I assume she’s passed, then,” Neville responded.

“Yeah, Killed by a drunk driver. Coming home from the shopping mall, of all places.”

“What happened to the driver?” Neville’s eyes narrowed. This was a test. He figured he knew what kind of man Bill was, but he wanted to be sure.

“He spent a few months in jail, got out on good behavior,” Bill said.

“And after that?” Come on, Bill, Neville thought. Give me a good ending to this story. Show me what you got. What kind of man are you?

“I’m not really sure. I knew he moved out of town. Dorothy was very well liked in the community and I guess he moved to get away from it all.”

“Didn’t you want to hurt him? Didn’t you want him to know your pain?”

“Yeah. But I guess that’s what the court was for, you know. I didn’t want to do something and end up behind bars while he walked out free.”

You failed, Bill.

“The law failed you, my friend,” Neville said. Seeing Bill’s expressions change during the conversation made the entire exercise worthwhile. The misery, the bitterness that Neville relished had been passed on, if only for a moment. Bill had intended to share his sweetest moments and Neville seized the opportunity to infer that he failed her memory. He wasn’t done.

“So did your second wife die, too?”

“No, she left me. She felt like she could never measure up. I lived alone for a while, then with my son and then ended up here.”

Bill noticed Neville stare down the hall toward his room.

“So I hear your new roommate will be here soon,” Bill said.

Neville gave a strained fake smile while rolling his eyes.

“Be careful he doesn’t steal your stuff,” Bill warned.

Neville hadn’t even considered that possibility. With Burt near catatonic during the second half of his stay, he never thought about sharing the room and access to his stuff with an able-bodied – or nosy – roommate. If he pilfered, he’d do so at his own risk. He wouldn’t find it all anyway – some of his best stuff was tucked away inside the air vent.

Neville nodded to Bill and stood up. A tall, white haired man walked into his room and he intended to find out what was going on. The man was dressed in a nice black shirt with grey slacks and had the appearance of authority. Neville assumed he’d be bringing in his new roommate.

“Who are you?” he questioned as he neared the door.

“Hi there, sir,” the man responded. “I’m the man who’s going to make sure this runs smoothly. I’m the inspector and I’m looking through all of the rooms. You keep a pretty clean place in here. Do you make your bed every day?”

Neville was beyond irritated. Who was this person and why did he have to arrive to harass elderly residents on Carol’s day off?

“Ms. Leonard has never mentioned an inspector,” he protested.

“Oh, I think she’s been fired. I’ll be running this place now. What’s your name?” The man struggled between loud curse words to pick up Neville’s actual name. Neville’s mouth was uncontrolled while his blood pressure began spiking so high he could feel the migraine coming on. What to do? What to do?

“Neville, I’m going to have to ask you to drop and give me twenty!” the man demanded.

He paused for a moment, considering the last remark, while a familiar-faced brunette intern walked in.

“Mr. Ramsey, can I speak with you?” she asked.

Outside of the room, she patted Neville’s arm while she dropped the bomb that might have been from the frying pan to the fire.

“Mr. Ramsey, this is your new roommate, Duncan. As you can tell, he suffers from dementia. He thinks he’s in charge. I know you’re really good at ignoring people, so can you learn to ignore him? He won’t always be like this, but I imagine he’s this way because of his new surroundings.”

Neville turned to look back inside the room. The man ran his fingers on the wall beside the bathroom, poring over the texture and perhaps examining its dirt. Out of worst-case scenarios, this was most likely a 9.

“If he proves to be more than you can bear, we can see about finding a private room when…”

“Somebody dies,” he finished.

Susan ignored that comment. She had the least tolerance for Neville out of the entire staff, most likely due to his speculation about her life outside of the home. For all she cared, he could remain in the miserable room, but she knew she’d have to hear about it, so she tried to smooth things over as best as possible.

As she walked down the hall, she remarked, “I don’t believe he’s a snorer, though, so you can cross that concern off your list.”

Funny girl.

Neville re-entered the room. Duncan greeted him again, explaining the rules of the house. Neville walked past him to his sitting chair and picked up a book. It was a charade to keep his new roommate from engaging in conversation again. He couldn’t read. Instead, he plotted. This would require a more sophisticated plan.

After a short nap, he woke to an empty room and decided to go for dinner He walked down the hall and saw Duncan in the distance, hands on his hips, standing over an agonizing Bill on the floor, struggling to finish a pushup.