WARNING/DISCLAIMER: It’s Uber. It might be scary. It might have sex. There could even be violence. So, it’s for grown ups.
FEEDBACK: Is welcome. p.phair@comcast.net or you can visit my web site at http://www.phair1.com
"And I went to jail for havin' one gun?" Bailey shook her head in disbelief staring at the wall of rifles before her.
"It's a wacky, upside, downside world," Taylor agreed. "Under no circumstance, can you have lawn darts but you can have a gun as long as you got a piece of paper from city hall. But, I guess, that's the difference between civilization and anarchy, between laws and chaos, between having a registration and not, between a museum quality weapon and a common hand gun, between…,"
"Havin' cash and a big time lawyer and havin' nothing and nobody," Bailey finished the statement.
"Absulutin' fuckin' tively!" Taylor agreed with a sad sigh. "Hey, it's getting late and we have one room to go. We'd better get a move on or we'll lose out on dessert of something."
"But…," Bailey seemed to be groping for the right words. "You haven't told me 'bout it yet."
"Huh?"
"Whose room is this, I mean, oh jeez, you know, who wrote the stuff in here," Bailey's limited knowledge of literature left her feeling very inadequate at the moment.
"Oh that," Taylor didn't think Bailey was paying attention when she talked about the writers behind the themes in the other rooms. "Well, let's see what we have here. Hunting rifles on one wall, stuffed trophy heads on the opposite…,"
"Whoa, you mean those animals were alive once upon a time," Bailey gestured over her shoulder at the marble eyed heads coldly staring into the forever of infinity.
"I think so. Yep, I'm pretty sure they all had bodies way back whenever. Anyway, we got guns, lots of guns, dead animals, the room is named Macomber, there are Cuban cigars, a map of Spain carved into the desk top; my guess is Hemingway."
"Holy Cow! You mean to tell me, Mariel Hemingway wrote a bunch of hunting books?"
"Ah, no, no, she didn't," Taylor was stunned.
"I'm just teasing," Bailey smiled brightly at Taylor's sigh of relief. "I know she had a sister."
"Oh, God!"
"Taylor, relax. I'm only funnin' ya. After all, I got my GED. Well, I almost got it. Just got to take the test. But, even I know who Ernest Hemingway was," Bailey gave a wink.
"Wow, you had me going. I thought…I mean, it seemed," Taylor was unwilling to continue her explanation.
"You thought I was pretty ignorant. That's okay, 'cause I am stupid. But, even dumb people get some of the basics." Bailey reassured.
"Shit! Bailey, I've had it with that kind of attitude! You are anything but stupid. God Damn it! How could you get so far and think, never mind say out loud, such a foolish thing about yourself," Taylor's fury made Bailey take a step back toward the door. "You're smart enough to get out of prison early on a minimum mandatory. You manage to figure out how far you can push your luck with Madame and Igor without getting seriously hurt. You constantly pump me for information that I know you're going to use to get you some place other than the gutter you so proudly claim you started out in. So, don't you dare tell me that you're stupid! It doesn't cut it with me."
"Taylor, take a breath before you faint dead away on me. I'm not kidding or pulling on your sympathy when I say I'm stupid," Bailey raised her hands in truce. "I was stupid enough to get caught with my step father's gun in my coat. Mom begged me to toss it in the river for her. She said, he'd told her he'd use it on her next time she got him mad enough. And, that was most nights after a case of beer. I was afraid for her. I wouldn't never have believed she'd call the cops to turn me in while I'm runnin' her errand," Bailey wiped at her dripping nose with a sleeve. "Guess, she wanted me out of the house or something. You know, Taylor, all she had to do was tell me to get lost and I would have been long and good gone."
"Did she ever come to see you after you were arrested?" Taylor was compelled to ask.
"Once. She came into the visiting room, sat down, and said, 'S or S,' then got up and walked out."
Taylor raised a questioning eyebrow.
"My step father use to threaten us with S or S before the beatings would start. It meant 'snap it or suffer' and even the little guy understood what that meant," Bailey explained as simply as she could.
"Too bad the jail guards couldn't figure out you were being threatened," Taylor supplied.
"That's not what they're getting' paid to do," Bailey shrugged. "Anyway, we still got one room to go or Madame is gonna be really pissed off."
"Right, the Whitman room."
"Think it's for Walt Whitman?" Bailey shyly ventured her guess.
"Madame hasn't been that transparent with any of the others. So, I'm gonna guess no before we even see the décor."
"So, who else could you hook up with Whitman in such an obvious way?" Bailey asked.
"Lincoln, I think he wrote a book and Whitman loved him," Taylor tried to gather her thoughts. "Dickinson was a contemporary of his but their styles and careers were so drastically different that it couldn't really be her. Still, there was the gay thing."
"What 'gay thing' are you talking about?" Bailey was puzzled by the comment.
"Good old Walt was out before out was even thought about. Boston banned his writings. Emily was rumored to have had some sort of extra sisterly relations with her brother's wife."
"Ya know, if they taught this juice stuff in school then these dead guys would be easier to remember," Bailey huffed as they entered the room. "It makes them seem human, almost."
Taylor went to the large pine writing table in the center of the room. She ran her fingers across the letters carved into the lower left hand corner of the table top. R-O-C-K-L-A-N-D.
"Ginsberg, Allen Ginsberg. He's the theme," Taylor was disgusted with herself for missing the earlier clue.
"Explain please," Bailey started to unpack the top box on a pile of neatly stacked boxes.
"Ginsberg felt a great connection to Whitman because of their writing styles and sexual orientation. Rockland is mentioned more than a dozen times in the poem, HOWL."
"What's with Buddha?" Bailey held up the small statue. "It looks like there's a shrine in this box."
"Probably. Ginsberg was into that. We might also find stuff about Jersey, college literary magazines, William Carlos Williams, Kerouac, civil rights, and suicide," Taylor listed as she went for the second stack of boxes near the windows.
"Oh, for God's sake, him too? Don't any of you writer's die by natural causes? I mean, all of 'em seem to be so friggin' sad," Bailey pulled Chinese trouble dolls out of the box.
"Don't include me with this crowd. I'm a reader. I research. I'm no writer," Taylor clarified.
"That's too bad," Bailey spoke softly but Taylor heard. "You're a good story teller."
Taylor headed for the shower with heavy feet in the predawn hours. While she was desperate to wash the filth from her body, the thought of the icy embrace from the outdoor shower dampened the appeal cleanliness usually held for her. She wanted to be brave. She wanted to stand under the cold stream without her teeth chattering but that was not likely to happen. It was cold out and cold water would only increase her pain and suffering. It would sap her strength even more than the hard day's work ahead of her.
"Bitch!"
The shout was followed by a loud smack of flesh on flesh. Taylor knew instantly the sound came from the shed. Without a second thought, she raced toward the rickety, parched wood structure.
Bailey was on the ground. She struggled to get on all fours. Igor kicked her hard in the ribs. Taylor didn't even think as raced forward and jumped on the man's back. He was stiff and cold and strong as an ox. Igor shook her off with little effort. She landed with a thud on the ground next to the whimpering Bailey.
"STOP!" The fake French accent was momentarily forgotten. "What is going on?"
"Madame, the girl bit me," he held out his hand like a wounded child searching for comfort.
"My poor, suffering bastard," she kissed the offended limb. "Go back to bed, my dear heart. I will make things right."
The three remained quite as the hulking figure trudged back to the house. Taylor could not believe her eyes. Igor was cradling the hand close to his heart. But, she was unsure if he was soothing the hurt or treasuring the kiss.
"Absolutely ridiculous," she mumbled before turning her attention to Bailey. "What's the damage?"
"Bruises, nothing," Bailey was struggling to get her breath.
"As for you two, you'll do his work today. All the shutters must be nailed shut. The ladder is in the basement." With a wicked gleam in her eyes, Madame pointed at Bailey, "This incident will go in my final report to your probation officer. I believe, he'll consider an incident like this to be assault or battery or some such thing."
"Please, Madame, I'm sorry. It'll never happen again. Just give me another chance," Bailey was begging.
"You hurt him, you little…,"
"Wait a minute!" Taylor had had enough silliness for one morning, "That guy is built like an oak tree. There's no way she hurt him. And, aren't you even gonna ask her what happened?"
Madame glared at Taylor but turned her focus to Bailey when the girl got on her feet.
"It was totally my fault, Madame. Ig…, I mean, he just came to let me out like usual and I flipped out for no reason. Please, can't we keep this between us. I'll do anything to make it up to you and him."
Taylor stood stock still as she listened to Bailey squirm. The lie rolled off the young woman's tongue like it was easier than the truth. The hand print bruise on Bailey's face made Taylor worry how bad the truth really was.
"An added week on your stay should make up for the unpleasantness this morning, don't you think?" Madame's grin revealed yellow teeth.
"More than fair, Madame," Bailey agreed.
"Fine. No showers. No breakfast. Get yourselves dressed and get those shutters closed," Madame commanded.
"Yes, Madame, thank you, Madame."
Taylor felt tears gathering in the corner of her eyes as she watched Bailey grovel.
"You're mad at me," Bailey stated once the final nail was driven in to close the final shutter.
It had been a long, torturous day. The pair started with the shutters on the third floor and worked their way down. The sun was hot and the wind was none existent. Both women baked in the heat. Combined with hands torn raw from the dried, splintering wood, and it was safe to say Taylor was miserable.
"You lied."
Taylor was too exhausted to go any further. She turned her back on the house and slid down to rest against the cold stone foundation. Bailey joined her.
"You don't understand. It would be six more months inside, easy. Maybe even more than that. I can't do no more hard time. I can't be nobody's punk ass no more."
The two remained silent. The trees rustled for the first time all day.
"Anybody's, anymore."
"Huh?" Bailey was clearly confused.
"The sentence should be, 'I can't be anybody's punk ass anymore.' Tell me how badly he hurt you," Taylor continued to stare straight ahead.
Bailey shrugged, "Igor tried to grab my tit, I bit him, he bitch slapped me, end of story."
"He kicked you too."
Bailey rubbed her sore ribs. She nodded agreement. She wondered when pain became so second nature to her that some of life's little hits were so quickly forgotten.
"Hey, I've got an idea," Bailey announced. "Our work is done. The sun's still out. And, you stink," Taylor frowned at the remark. "Okay, we stink. Let's take a shower."
"Together?" Taylor's voice cracked.
"Come on, that water's damn cold. The two of us together should generate some body heat." Bailey watched Taylor slowly nod agreement before she finished her thought, "Besides, you know how we prison girls are."
"I'm starting to get the feeling I'm about to learn what you mean by punk ass," Taylor let Bailey pull her to her feet.
"Naw, you're really bottom bitch material. Do you have any idea how much money I could make off of you inside?" Bailey lead the way.
"No, but I'm sure you're gonna tell me all about it while you scrub my ass."
"A woman after my own heart," Bailey laughed out loud.
The pair had no idea they were being watched by two sets of eyes.