The Suspect List--Chapter One

The caregiver, a sick old man, his hot grandson, and a mysterious photo

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

“I like to fuck sheep,” Jabez Carlaw says, for the millionth time.

Sick old perv, I think, for the millionth time, as I reach for the handles on his wheelchair.

If it were up to me, we’d move Jabez—or JB as everyone calls him—across the hall to a room that doesn’t have a view of the neighboring sheep farm.

I’ve been trying to think of a tactful way to suggest this to his daughter. Sherry Brooks, the youngest of JB’s four kids and his only regular visitor is here every Sunday. She comes by after attending the nine o’clock service at The Cowboy Church and sits in the corner knitting scarves and hats for the unhoused while humming loudly to block out whatever obscenities her elderly father is spewing.

Sherry ignores the nasty crap her father says and treats him as if he’s still the same man he used to be. JB was a big deal in Montezuma County. Not only did he own one of the biggest ranches in the area, he was mayor of Mannon, Colorado for many years, and volunteered on all kinds of boards and committees. Before dementia, he was an upstanding member of the community, dedicated family man, and good Christian—according to his daughter anyway.

Word around town is that he’s always been a bit of an asshole.

Right now JB is pressing his feet deeper into the carpet making it impossible to push his wheelchair forward. Instead, I pull him backward until he’s in front of the small table and turn him around. He takes his meals in his room because he’s too disruptive to eat in the dining room with the other residents of Mesa Assisted Living.

“Today we have mashed potatoes, creamed chicken, peas, and raspberry gelatin, all for your dining pleasure,” I say with as much cheer as I can muster.

“I like to fuck sheep.”

“Mm, hm.” I slip a bib around his neck, and snap it under the collar of his expensive, wool plaid shirt, wondering once again, what made me think transferring to the memory care wing was a good idea. The minuscule pay raise isn’t worth what I have to put up with. I’ve been hit, kicked, spit on, cussed out, and once, I kid you not—had a turd thrown at me. Luckily, Mrs. Finnigan, retired librarian and the former historian of Mannon, is a lousy aim.

“Let’s start with chicken, I know you like chicken.”

“Lamb.”

“We can pretend it’s lamb, if you’d like.” I dip his spoon into the chicken and hand it to him, hoping he’ll feed himself today. Odds are about fifty-fifty. Either way, it’s a long process.

I hear footsteps in the hallway. The halls in the memory care wing are locked at both ends to keep patients from wandering, but JB’s door is open.

“Knock, knock,” says Nora, who manages the front desk. “Jabez, you have a visitor.” 

JB doesn’t look up, but I do and my heart does a little leap, because this visitor is male, and pleasant to look at.

“Hi. We’re having dinner.” Did I really say ‘we’? I hate it when caregivers say we when they don’t mean we. I’m not the one eating.

“I’m Zane.” He holds out his hand.

I know the name. He’s Sherry’s son.

I set down the spoon and shake his hand. “Kalico Crane.”

He smiles. “My mom’s told me about you.”

Told him what? Did Sherry describe me as the smart aleck caregiver with too many piercings and tats, and crooked front teeth? 

Zane’s sparkling white teeth are perfectly even, no doubt the product of expensive orthodontia. He sits in the chair across from JB. His brown hair is short and stylish, and he’s wearing nice- fitting jeans and a light blue shirt that matches his eyes.

“Hey, Granddad. How are things going?”

JB doesn’t answer.

“It looks like they’re feeding you well.”

Still nothing.

“Do they take good care of you here?” Zane throws a sideways glance my way.

“Pussy.” JB grabs my wrist, and looks right at Zane. “Pretty pussy.”

I jerk my hand back, sure that my face is turning as red as the raspberry gelatin. I’m a professional, perfectly capable of enduring a bit of awkwardness, except where attractive men are concerned. I can’t even look at Zane right now.

“I think he means pussycat,” Zane explains softly. “He’s always referred to cats as pussycats, as people used to do more often than they, uh do now. He’s had calico barn cats pretty much forever.”

“Well then I guess that makes sense.” I scoop up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and offer it to JB.

He takes the spoon, and brings it to his mouth, his hand shaking all the way. “Mmm. Pussy.”

Oh my fucking God. Could this get any worse?

Zane gets up fast and walks over to a wall that’s covered in a collage of family photos. Most were taken at the Carlaw ranch. There are several of JB’s wife, Mary who died a few months back. She’d been caring for JB at home for far too long and not taking care of herself. Poor woman had a massive heart attack. The other photos are of family celebrations.

“My mom sure did put up a lot of photos,” Zane says.

“She thought it would make JB feel more at home.”

Zane looks around the room and then back at me. “This whole apartment is smaller than the master bedroom at the ranch.”

Is he bragging about his family’s wealth? “Your mom tells me you’re a journalist.”

“Yes.”

“You write for the newspaper in Durango?”

“I do.”

I nod. Sherry told me about Zane’s career–that he earns less than he could make waiting tables. His father almost refused to help pay for his education on the grounds that a journalism degree is a waste of money these days. Almost refused to pay for it means his parents did in fact help pay for his college. Lucky bastard.

My father didn’t give me two cents toward post high school education. Not unless I count the money he sent when I graduated high School. It arrived in a card, probably picked out by my stepmother, who actually remembers that sort of thing. The card had the word ‘celebrate’ written on it. Inside was a crisp twenty dollar bill. I handed the twenty to my best friend’s older brother and he went into the liquor store and came out with a bottle of rum. We celebrated until we puked.

I encourage JB to take another bite, which he does, half of it ending up on his chin.

Zane returns to the table holding a framed photo that he took off the wall. It’s of a pretty, teenage girl sitting astride a horse in the middle of a pristine-looking outdoor arena. Naturally, the Carlaw ranch has clean dirt.

With her white-blonde hair and delicate features she doesn’t resemble the Carlaws, who mostly have medium to dark hair, olive or suntanned skin, and a recognizable similarity to their features. Dressed in jeans and a pink, lacy camisole, she’s smiling at the camera as if she’s a model on a photo shoot.

“Do you remember this girl, Granddad?”

“Boy.”

“No, Abigail is definitely a girl.”

“No balls,” JB says, angrily jabbing his spoon at the photo, flinging a bit of mashed potato onto it.

“Oh, you mean Eclipse,” Zane says, picking up a napkin and wiping the potato off the photo. “Yes, he was a gelding and a great horse.”

JB grunts.

“What do you remember about Abigail Olsen?”

“Trouble.”

Zane nods enthusiastically. “Yes, there was that. I remember what Grandma used to say. Girls are trouble.”

A snort of disgust escapes me.

Zane gives me a wink, as if to say he doesn’t mean this, he’s just trying to connect with JB.

The wink does something funky to my insides.

To JB, Zane says, “Abigail was more trouble than most girls wasn’t she?”

“Slut.” JB says.

“Hey, that’s not nice,” Zane says. “She was just a kid.”

“Slut. Whore. Slut. Whore.” JB’s voice gets louder as he becomes increasingly agitated.

My attempt to calm him with a hand on his shoulder and soothing words fails miserably.

With a wave of his arm JB sends his plate flying. It hits the far wall, raspberry gelatin sliding down the cream colored paint like splattered brains.

For a moment Zane and I both stare at the mess. Then we look at each other. Zane looks mortified. I’m used to this sort of behavior so I give him a little shrug. “It’s better to visit in the morning. Late afternoon and evening is JB’s worst time.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll uh, come back another time.” Zane is out the door in seconds.

I’m betting this will be his only visit, but at least he made it once, which is more than most of JB’s family. Sherry complained about it to me one time, and then quickly made excuses for her brothers and nephews, saying that men aren’t as strong emotionally as women and it’s just too hard for them to see their idol in this condition.

Idol?

I don’t doubt that this is what she wants to believe. I’m sure Sherry also wants to believe that JB didn’t really fuck sheep, not even one sheep, one time when he was a stupid, desperately horny teenager and felt the need to experiment. I know I’d like to believe this too, especially now that it’s spring and cute little lambs can be seen curled up in the field, or wobbling about on spindly legs.

As soon as his grandson is gone JB goes from shouting to muttering.

I’m putting the photo back on the wall when something slips out of the frame and falls to the floor. It’s another photo of Abigail. In this one she’s wearing the same lacy pink camisole, but no jeans, only a tiny pair of bikini bottoms. Instead of a horse she’s straddling a turquoise bicycle, her bare toes barely touching the ground. She’s leaning forward, elbows on the handlebars, smiling seductively at the camera.

Slut. Whore. Slut. Whore. 

Was JB thinking of this photo? Judging the girl? Old men can be such dicks.

I try to put the photo back but the frame is cracked and it falls right out. I start to set the photo on the table but change my mind, and put it in my pocket instead. I don’t want Sherry to see it. My instinct is that it would upset her.

Tomorrow, I’ll return it to its hiding place, tape it in and glue the frame together.

(I hope you enjoyed chapter one! If so, please consider liking/sharing/re-stacking.)