Fostering Death (24 page)

The streets were quiet. I’d timed the trip well. The sun was just rising, and I had enough light to see. On a Sunday morning, very few people would be going to work, and it was too early for church. I stuck close to the hedges that bordered the yard as I slipped down the driveway to the garage. First I tried the side door, but it was locked. The window, though, was cracked open a bit.

Placing my hands under the lower sash, I tried to heave it upward enough for me to climb in. It wouldn’t move.

This was stupid. Suppose someone saw me trying to break into the garage? There’d be no explaining it away.

But the mental image of a crazed Aaron over here with a gun was worse. I gave the window another shove. With a wrenching sound, it flew upward.

I darted backward, diving under the sticker bushes. Had it been loud enough to attract attention? It had seemed really loud to me, but I’d been right next to it.

No one came running. No one shouted. The feeble morning light grew a bit stronger.

After a bit, I got to my feet, dashed to the window and scrambled in. I had to wait for my eyes to adjust to the interior dimness. I wasn’t about to turn on the overhead light, although I might use a flashlight if I found one.

Where would someone hide pills? Aaron had said the dogs wouldn’t be able to sniff them out. It couldn’t just be that they thought no one would search the garage.

I moved away from the window and looked around. The car was covered with a layer of dust. The sticker on the license plate was over a year old. I eased myself around the side of the garage and looked at the shelves. Tools and gardening supplies and other stuff people tended to keep in the garage, all covered with dust.

One shelf had several cans of exterior paint in the same color as the half-painted garage and some old paint brushes that no one had bothered to clean. Hadn’t Aaron said that Zee had been painting the garage? They shouldn’t leave the paint out here in the cold weather. A deep paint tray gave off a pungent odor. Turpentine. An empty turpentine can lay on its side, the cap off. Why would anyone empty the turpentine into a paint tray?

I looked closer. Something square sat in the turpentine. I reached in and pulled it out. A plastic storage box, like for a sandwich. I shook it to get as much turpentine off it as I could, then tried to remove the top. It wouldn’t budge.

I took a screwdriver. It punctured the side of the container, but it did pry the lid off.

The interior of the box was dry. Sure enough, several prescription drug bottles lay in the bottom. I held one up to the light. The name on the label was “Dennis Coleman.” The medication was “oxycodone.”

Wrapping the bottles in a rag, I shoved them into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie.

Now I just had to get away with them and convince Aaron he had no reason to come back over here. Easiest way to do that was probably just bring the bottles, pills and all, and give them to Aaron.

There were three bottles, each half full. If they were oxys, they would bring at least thirty dollars a pill if Aaron sold them to his buddies. Or, more likely, kill him if he took too many himself.

Even if I didn’t feel responsible for what happened to Aaron, I didn’t want to be the one who supplied a fatal overdose. Besides, that could deliver a murder charge on top of a distribution charge.

Maybe my best bet would be to empty the pills down a storm drain or something and just bring him the empty bottles.

When I reached the end of the driveway, I stopped to look for anyone on the street. No cars, but someone was walking slowly down the sidewalk away from me.

I could go around the other way. Tightening the hood so it would shield my face, I turned to walk past Coleman’s house.

The front door was open. It was much too cold to leave it like that. I took a closer look at the figure hobbling away in the opposite direction. A man leaning heavily on a cane. Mr. Coleman?

I sprinted after him. Sure enough, it was Mr. Coleman. Once again, he had no coat or hat, just a shirt and pants. And the pants were wet.

When I got up next to him, my nose told me he’d wet himself.

What happened to the ladies who were supposed to be coming in to take care of him? Probably too early in the morning. Although he seemed to be beyond having part time household help. He seemed like he needed to be in a nursing home or some kind of residence.

I took him by the arm and turned him around toward the house.

When we got inside and the door closed, I steered him to a wooden chair in the kitchen. No point in sitting him on the upholstered furniture with urine-soaked pants. This time at least I knew who to call.

Mrs. Williams said of course she was up and dressed. She’d be right over.

Mr. Coleman’s bottles of medication were on the counter, but they weren’t in a nice neat row. In fact, some of them were lying on their sides with their caps off, pills spilling onto the counter.

Next to them was a compartmented plastic pill container, organized into days of the week and times of the day. The tops on a few compartments were popped open, but they were mostly full.

I took the bottles out of my pocket and studied the labels. They were all oxys, but one of them said Mildred Coleman. I put the two with Dennis’s name toward the back of the little collection.

The back door opened as Mrs. Williams let herself in. I slipped the other bottle back into my pocket. When she saw me, she frowned. “Aren’t you the young man who was over last week? And found Dennis outside then, too?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Jerry or Jeffrey or something.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t correct her.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Last time I thought he hadn’t taken his meds or eaten, and he was dehydrated and disoriented. Usually he’s quite lucid.” She surveyed the counter with its pills. “Did he take his meds this morning?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

Her nose wrinkled as she got close to Mr. Coleman. “He needs a shower.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you want to help him get one?”

What I
really
wanted was to leave. But I said, “I guess.”

“I’ll fix something for him to eat. For you, too.”

“I thought the people from the church were going to come over and help him out,” I said, maneuvering him toward the bathroom off the master bedroom.

“Oh, they stop by, for sure. But you know how these church ladies are. Once they realize he’s not wealthy and probably not interested in marrying one of them, they just do the bare minimum for him.”

Granted, I didn’t have much experience with church ladies, but I would have thought they were less interested in their own well-being and more in charitable works than that. But what did I know?

While I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of helping Mr. Coleman wash up, he really did need a shower and clean clothes. And it was more appropriate for me than for Mrs. Williams to help him.

In the cramped bathroom, Mr. Coleman followed my instructions to unbutton his shirt. He was wearing leather slippers with a furry lining, so getting his shoes off wasn’t a problem. I unbuckled his belt and watched as he unzipped his trousers and took them off. I had to tug his undershirt over his head.

I bundled the smelly clothes up and put them in an otherwise empty laundry hamper by the bedroom door.

The water seemed to take forever to reach a reasonable temperature, and I started to worry that the water heater wasn’t working. I used the time to rifle through the dresser drawers and closets, finding clean underwear, shirts, and a folded pair of pants.

The drawers in Mrs. Coleman’s dresser were still filled with her things. I slipped the remaining pill bottle under a stack of undergarments so sturdy I doubted they qualified as “lingerie.”

Aaron would just have to take my word for it that the oxys were gone.

Mr. Coleman didn’t seem to understand he had to step into the shower, so when the water had warmed up, I took his elbow and guided him in.

Not that different from helping fellow inmates clean up after they’d been in a fight, I told myself. If someone was all bloodied up but didn’t want to go to the infirmary, we’d try to help him shower and get to his bunk without the COs noticing. Often a guy was trying to keep his disciplinary record clean, and having a report of a fight was a sure way to mess that up. And on the occasional case when one of the COs had gotten a little too free with his fists, the inmate often didn’t want it reported, either.

I soaped up a washcloth and put it in his hand. Awkwardly, he followed my directions to lather up his body, spending extra time on the crotch and underarms. I rubbed a little shampoo on his sparse white locks. Then he stood under the shower, turning as I told him to, and rinsed off.

Once again I took his elbow and guided him out. I handed him a towel and watched as he dried himself off. His once-firm flesh sagged, covered by pale freckled skin. I toweled down his back where he had trouble reaching, and had him sit on the edge of the bed to so I could dry his feet well.

He struggled into his clothes. We didn’t bother with a belt. I buttoned up his shirt for him and found another pair of slippers, identical to the first but looking cleaner and smelling fresher. He thrust his feet into them.

The kitchen smelled of baking biscuits and frying ham. Mrs. Williams looked up at me and smiled as I brought Mr. Coleman into the kitchen and sat him in a chair. She poured out two mugs of freshly made coffee. “The church ladies did bring food,” she said. “They just didn’t fix it for him.”

Gratefully, I took a mug.

Mrs. Williams had gathered the meds from the counter. She looked at them and frowned.

“Would you be a dear and go get the list of his meds from the bathroom cabinet?” she asked me. “I think there should be a list taped inside the medicine cabinet door. Mildred always kept two lists there, one for each of them. I want to check it against what’s here and see what he should be taking.”

Obediently, I went back to the bathroom and carefully removed the list with his name on it. I put it on the table for Mrs. Williams.

She served up two big plates of fried ham, canned beans, and fresh biscuits. “I’m afraid that there were no eggs,” she said apologetically.

I ate enthusiastically. Mr. Coleman picked at his food.

“These biscuits are wonderful, ma’am,” I said, stuffing another one in my mouth.

She smiled. “I love to see a man with a good appetite.”

She studied the list and the little bottles. After a few minutes, she took two bottles and shook a few of the little yellow tablets out on the table. “You have young eyes,” she said. “Are these the same thing?”

I picked up one of each. “No,” I said. “One’s just a little bigger than the other. And they have different names on them.”

“What do they say?”

“This one says ‘Synthroid.’”

“Yes, that’s his thyroid medication.”

“And this one says ‘Seroquel.’”

She frowned, studying the list. “I don’t see Seroquel listed.”

“What does it do?” I asked.

“It can be used as an anti-depressant.”

“Maybe he got it after Mrs. Coleman died. You know, to help him cope.”

“Maybe.” Mrs. Williams picked up the bottle. “But the bottle doesn’t
say
‘Seroquel.’ It says ‘Synthroid.’”

“Do you think he could be getting them mixed up?”

Instead of answering, Mrs. Williams pulled the compartmented pill container over to her and peered at it.

The container had four rows of seven compartments each. Each compartment had a hinged top. It looked like an abridged three dimensional multiplication table. I moved a bit closer. The rows were labeled
AM
,
Noon
,
PM
, and
Bedtime
. The little lids also had the days of the week printed on them.

Mrs. Williams started opening the lids. Some of them were empty, but others had pills in them. “He’s not been taking them regularly,” she said. “Maybe that’s why he’s so confused.” She emptied the contents on the table and began to sort them.

I saw a number of Synthroid tablets, but no Seroquel ones, although they were hard to tell apart. She started sorting them into piles, then pulled the bottles over, and put each little hill of pills in front of its bottle.

Following the list carefully, she filled each little compartment with the appropriate pills. There weren’t enough of the Synthroid ones, but the Seroquel didn’t seem to go anywhere.

“May I have another biscuit?” I asked her.

“Of course. Have all you want. Put some butter and jam on them if you want.”

I poured myself another mug of coffee, found a jar of raspberry preserves in the refrigerator, and slathered it on the biscuit. I’d bought myself some grape jelly, since it was the cheapest kind, but it had been years since I’d had any other flavor, and I’d forgotten how good it could be.

Mrs. Williams frowned again and picked up the bottle with the Seroquel pills that was labeled Synthroid. It was almost full. “This doesn’t seem right,” she said. “Seroquel could cause confusion. I wonder…”