Brazil, Indiana
Congratulations, Debbi!
Debbi’s Bio:
Although my real passion (obsession) has long been with writing, my professional life led me in a far different direction. I worked in the field of mental health for twenty years. I’ve held positions as the Psychiatric Social Service Director at the Indiana Boys School prior to its closing and as a director at an agency that serves the developmentally disabled. But still, a therapist’s duties entail exploring the inner workings of the mind and then making sense of and recording the most intimate thoughts of others in a meaningful way. I hold a Master’s Degree in Psychology and completed work toward my doctorate. Other joys in my life include my husband, two daughters, two grandsons and competing with my Appaloosa show horses. My two Great Pyrenees dogs are my soulful guardians. Ongoing writing projects include several short pieces (one, of course, for your next contest) and a creative non-fiction, book-length piece set in post-Civil War Indiana.
The R Wurd
A tapping on the bathroom door was his signal to give the next in line their turn. Larry murmured a response to the reminder, “One minute, please.”
Larry hate group home.
He was accustomed to the weight of his spectacles, but unaware that to an observer, his pale eyes were magnified sky blue moons that affixed themselves to whomever was gracious enough to acknowledge him. He grunted with another futile attempt at urination.
Can’t pee.
A voice hurried him, “Larry, it’s time to go.”
“I coming, Ms. Gordon.” Larry bundled up his pants and turned the doorknob with the other.
The caretaker paced in the hallway, sullen-faced from her fifty-five years.
A faded “Say No To The ‘R’ Word” t-shirt stretched against her bosoms. “Playing with yourself again?”
“Sorry, Ms. Gordon.”
Larry headed to the kitchen and scooped three teaspoons of sugar into his coffee.
She not see.
The group home hallway was a traffic lane for dullards. Ms. Gordon walked down it and stationed herself behind Larry’s chair. “That’s it, Larry. You’ve got two black check marks, one for taking too long in the bathroom and now for gorging sugar.”
She need black mark.
“Like sugar.”
“Open your mouth. I’ll just pour it in right out of the bag. You’d like that wouldn’t you?”
“Sorry, Ms. Gordon.”
“Did you put on clean underwear? Ms. Baker’s taking you to your appointment.”
He turned his magnified eyes in her direction. “Hurt down there.”
“I’ll bet. Probably from overdoing it after lights out.” Gordon glanced at the newspaper strewn across the kitchen table, saw the Be Part of the McDonald’s Team ad and mumbled to herself. The second caretaker on shift was warming the van in the drive, waiting, not yet jaded.
Larry waved. “Bye, Ms. Gordon. Bye, Jim. Bye, Kittie.”
Baker shut the passenger side door after he climbed in. “Mr. Larry! Good to see you. We’re going on a road trip. The Dairy Queen by the clinic... This van refuses to pass it by.”
Larry thought of the hand that used to stroke his cheek.
Mommy.
He stretched out his legs. “You have to steer the car to go there. Get me ice cream?”
“You betcha’ buddy.”
He hummed softly during the ten mile drive.
“Does anybody ever take you on outings? Jim went with his sister last weekend.”
“No, but might see Mommy and Daddy soon.”
Baker opened the clinic door. Her eyes scoured the entry doors that lined the clinic hallways. “Dr. Johnson’s gonna’ fix you up just fine.”
“I fine.”
Ten minutes passed before the doctor came into the exam room and closed the door. Baker reached to cover the knuckles resting on Larry’s right knee. With legs crossed and tapping one foot against the tiled floor, Larry surveyed the exam room walls, focusing in on a monochromatic diagram of a male’s urinary tract.
The doctor spoke. “Ms. Baker... This is likely to have a negative outcome within a reasonably short period of time.”
Then his voice crawled, “Larry. Buddy. Do you know what cancer means?”
Know.
The doctor turned toward Ms. Baker. “How are these situations typically handled in the group home?”
“Me.”
Putting two fingers lengthwise up to his lips, the doctor stared, “Larry... It’s okay. We need to use our indoor voices. I have to talk to Ms. Baker.”
“No... Me.” Larry banged his fist on the mahogany desk.
Me.
Shuffling the stack of documentation, the doctor asked, “Is he always this explosive? No close relatives... Parents are deceased. Has anyone been appointed as his power of attorney?”
Ms. Baker rose from her chair. “Doctor... Larry’s disabled but he comprehends things better than you’d think. He just can’t get his words out right.”
Larry was nodding.
Smart.
“So you’re telling me that he can absorb this situation.”
Larry squinted. “Like sponge.”
Retard.
“Mr. Henderson... Please accept my apology. I was thinking it could be a blessing if someone didn’t understand the reality of this.” He pointed at the charts. “You don’t have much longer.”
“Ms. B... Don’t cry. Okay... Tired to be here.” Larry patted her hand. “Doctor was being... ‘R’ word.”
But nice man.
A mist of rain was wetting his cheeks as they got close to the van. Baker wiped just under one eye and reached for the door handle, looking in his direction. “So you want to visit the cemetery today? Is that what you were saying?”
“Uh huh. But steer for ice cream first. Okay?”
Time to go.
***