Chapter 4

The next year was a tough struggle, mostly for Sue, but also for Nancy, who took on Sue’s psychiatric care. Dampening the paranoid features, mostly in the form of an overwhelming flood of horrifying, confused, and unaligned religious ideas -- Sue was confounding Jesus with Confucius and Martin Luther King -- while at the same time lifting the depressive shroud that blanketed her, proved to be a challenge requiring frequent adjustments of both the choice of psychoactive medications and a series of delicate adjustments to their proportions and frequency.

For Sue, the experience was a long swim from a frightening metaphorical depth, always certain that her breath would play out long before she gained the surface. And, even when she reached that surface, she found it storm-tossed and lonely.

Jennifer Uvalde and Nancy Stoessel worked closely to get Sue settled into a new home in Leaufroide.

When she was first discharged from Plattsburg, she was given a room in Transition Place, a two-bedroom apartment we’d constructed on the ground floor of Building Two, just beyond the St. Louis Bakery & Deli. We sometimes used the apartment as a halfway house for clients recently discharged from the hospital. And, if needed, it could also serve as a respite residence for Maintenance Project clients having minor, short-term problems related to their disorders. It wasn’t always occupied; in fact, most of the time it was vacant. But it proved to be a valuable tool in further reducing our use of inpatient care at Plattsburg.

Then, at Sue’s preference, Jennifer helped her find an apartment in an assisted-living building, allowing her to afford the rent on a subsistence level Supplemental Security Income benefit payment.

As part of her treatment plan, Sue joined one of our Community Maintenance Project work crews, in her case, a mobile cleaning crew, one of several that provided contracted services to businesses, churches, government offices, and the like. The therapeutic benefits of established routines, social skill-building, occupational activities, and the enhanced feelings of security were further enriched by the ability to earn a limited wage. All contract proceeds went to these wages. Our rehab techs’ services were paid for by fees that we charged, under the Medicaid program.

Eventually, Sue requested a transfer to the bakery crew.

As Denny began the after-breakfast clean-up chores in the bakery, Sue arrived for her shift.

Her assignment was to prepare baked goods for sale to the late-morning, lunch, and early-afternoon customers; the St. Louis Bakery & Deli closed at three. Brownies were a daily feature in the display case. A cake and two types of cookies varied day-to-day, according to our posted four-week menu cycle. There were sometimes special-order cakes for birthdays and other occasions.

Denny was on until twelve-thirty, when his work-day ended.

A third crew member would start at eleven-thirty, to help in the lunch service and work with Sue in the afternoon clean-up and close of business.

Denny’s final assignment each day was to carry the large trash bags to the dumpster next to the garage workshop; Tuesdays and Fridays were trash pick-up days at the County Service Center. Denny had a bi-weekly appointment with Dr. Bartkowiak after his shift, so I usually hauled out the trash to the dumpster that day because Sue was a bit too short to do the job easily.

As I heaved the last bag over the lip of the trash bin, a protrusion caught my shirt pocket and popped my cell phone into the dumpster. I heard it slide down the sloping front.

“Isn’t that just fuckin’ perfect,” I said, under my breath.

I looked in and, as I’d expected, the phone had slid out of sight and out of reach.

I kept some coveralls in my office, for the odd messy duty that sometimes cropped up in the course of a week in Community Mental Health. I returned to my office and pulled them on over my jeans -- the casual business attire that was the customary garb at the Center -- and shrugged into the sleeves.

I went back out to the dumpster, behind the six-bay garage, which was across parking lot from the county service center. The garage was situated a couple hundred feet from the main buildings, amidst scattered mature evergreen trees, remnants of the forest that had once covered the bench on which the complex was constructed. Heaving a sigh of resignation, I took hold of the grimy, rolled edge -- only then remembering the leather work gloves in my desk -- and boosted myself over the front. Most of the trash was typical office refuse, so, except for the bakery’s bags, which I’d heaved to the back corner, I wasn’t too worried about stepping on anything moist and squishy.

Knowing generally where the phone had landed, I began to dig along the slanted front wall. The first bag I went to move, however, contained a long, irregularly-shaped, heavy object that immediately tingled my Spidey-sense. As I lifted it from its resting place, my fingers and eyes made out the obvious shape of a long firearm, a shoulder stock at one end and a barrel at the other. The barrel seemed too narrow for a shotgun, so I concluded it was a rifle. By some lizard-brain instinct, I determined not to handle it further, but I placed it along the back edge of the trash bin.

Then I climbed out of the dumpster and hurried back to the privacy of my office.

Tate’s cell number was programmed into my cell phone -- which was still in the dumpster -- but was not programmed into my memory cells, which were in my head. I had to use the county inter-office extension number to call the Sheriff’s receptionist and base radio operator, Wanda Durkee, John’s wife.

“Sheriff’s office, Wanda speaking.”

“Wanda, it’s Gary, over in mental health. Is Tate still up at the Junction?”

“He’s on his way back, Gary. Should be back here in about twenty minutes.”

“I need to talk to him right away, but I don’t have my cell phone and I can’t remember his cell number.”

“It can’t wait ‘til he’s back in the office?”

“No, Wanda, I’m pretty sure it can’t.”

“Hold on, I’ll forward you.”

A couple clicks and a ring-tone later, I heard, “What’s up, Wanda?”

“Tate, it’s Gary. She forwarded my call.”

“What’s up, Gary?”

“Something that has me worried. About fifteen minutes ago, I took some trash out to the dumpster, behind the garage up here. Something caught on my shirt, and my phone got snagged and ended up in the dumpster.”

“Sounds more like a job for the fire department.”

“They told me to call you.”

“I’m listenin’, Gare.”

“I went to my office for some coveralls I keep there, a lesson I learned from you guys, and went back and crawled into the dumpster. The first thing I found looked to be a rifle in a white trash bag. I found it toward the front, but I set it toward the back of the dumpster. It seemed an odd object to find out there.”

“Does seem odd. Okay, now I’m running code three, (I could hear the siren start whooping) but I’ll switch off before I get close to the Center. Can you keep an eye on the dumpster?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be there in about ten.” He clicked off.

Still in the coveralls, but now with the leather gloves in a hip pocket, I decided to watch the dumpster from one of the rear windows of the garage. I walked across the parking lot to the garage, opened the side door and stepped inside --

-- and woke up to Tate, kneeling next to me, his fingers exploring a very painful lump on the right side of my head. When he took his hand away, I could see blood on his fingers, but everything shimmered in a red haze that seemed to pulse brighter with the bursting throbs of pain in my head.

I mumbled, “That kind of brutality is why everybody hates cops.”

He said, “I ask you to do one simple job...” Then, “Ambulance will be here in a couple minutes. Best not move. Did you see anyone?”

“Not a hint.”

“Anywhere hurt besides your head?”

“I reckon my pride might be bruised.”

“I should think.”

“Was the rifle still out there?”

“Haven’t looked, but I’d guess probably not. I’ll check after the medics get here.”

Just then, we could hear sirens making their way up the hill from the direction of what the locals called “downtown,” where the fire station was located.

“Go look, I’m not going anywhere. I put it against the left rear side, one layer down.”

“You sure?”

“Not having to look at you will reduce the pain.”

He pulled out a clean, folded hankie and placed it, still folded, as a pad under my head. He took one more look at me and said, “I’ll be right back.” And he walked out the door.

Next I knew, I could feel one of those stretchy dressing bands being wrapped around my head. Tate and two medics were preparing to lift me onto the stretcher.

“Hold on,” I said. “Save your backs. Just help me sit up.”

“Bad idea” said one of the medics.

“C’mon, I’m not hurt that bad. Help me sit up and I can scoot onto the stretcher.”

“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The medics helped me to sit up. My eyesight faded to gray haze and I was hit by a wave of nausea.

“Still interested in scooting?” I detected a hint of smugness.

“Maybe not right now.” They laid me back down.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew what you were talking about?” I chivied the medic.

“Would it have done any good?” he chuckled.

“We’ll never know.”

At the first medic’s direction, they got in place for a three-man stretcher lift, and, with little apparent effort -- but a great deal of exaggerated grunting and groaning -- they lifted me onto the down-folded, wheeled stretcher. And then I got another lights and siren ride.

Our family primary health care provider was a nurse practitioner, Emily Iverson. She arrived at the Leaufroide Community Hospital emergency room about two minutes after the ambulance crew got me there.

After an exam, x-rays, eight stitches and some only marginally-helpful ibuprofen -- stronger pain meds might have masked more serious symptoms -- she admitted me for overnight observation with a diagnosed concussion, but no skull fracture. By that time, Greta had arrived.

Tate interviewed me with Greta sitting next to the bed, holding my hand, though she was frowning at me.

“So you didn’t actually see what was in the bag. You couldn’t see any detail through the plastic?”

“No. It wasn’t one of the county trash bags from the supply room. Those are sorta transparent. This one was fully ... opaque.”

“What did you feel?”

“It was heavy, felt like it weighed more than rifles I’ve handled before. Felt bulkier, or maybe more rounded, around the shoulder stock and fore stock. Fore stock was long, too. When I went to feel for the barrel, to see if it was a shotgun or rifle, I noticed that the fore stock was fairly thick, with a ridge at one point, and extended pretty far up the barrel. There was a scope on it. There was something poking out on the side of the action. Like where a right hand would reach for it if you were holding it in a firing position. Not like a bolt with, uh, you know, like a rounded ball on the end, and not that far back as that type of bolt. This seemed shorter, more forward, and only protruded on the right hand side.”

“That’s a lot to notice.”

“I thought about messing up fingerprints, but I was already handling it, so I decided to try to visualize it using my hands.”

“Why didn’t you just open the bag?”

“It just made me suspicious and I didn’t want to mess it up any more than I already had by opening the bag. And it was taped pretty tight, over the shoulder stock and fore stock, wrapped tight with clear packing tape, the heavy duty stuff, like for shipping cartons. I figured the tape was the likely spot for fingerprints, that I hadn’t already touched, anyway, along with the rifle itself, so I avoided touching the tape. I also decided to move it, which might have affected any evidence, but I thought it would be more helpful than harmful. I was figuring it out as I went and probably made some mistakes, so arrest me. Then you can cover the hospital bill.”

“I’ll arrest you the next time Louise invites you over for a meal. Then I’ll save money. If you were to guess what kind of rifle it was, what would you guess?”

“Okay, this might seem odd, but I had the feeling it was one of those World War Two rifles, that the American army used, but with a scope.”

“You mean the M1 Garand?”

“I recognize that name, but not enough to say that’s the one I mean.”

“Well, that was the standard-issue rifle of US armed forces during that war and up until Vietnam. From what I remember, it would fit your description.”

“Then, probably that’s what I mean.”

“Interesting. Anything else?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“What about the trash bag. Tell me about it.”

“Well, like I said, it wasn’t one of the county trash bags. And I didn’t see any built-in ties, like some of the high end kitchen trash bags. Now that I think about it, it seemed longer than a standard kitchen trash bag. Maybe it was two bags, one from each end, one end inside the other, overlapping. Maybe that’s why it was taped in two places. That’s just a guess, not something I felt. But I don’t remember seeing anything that looked like where the open end would be. No exposed edges or a place where it was gathered, like with a twist tie, other than maybe under the tape.”

“What about anything near that bag, beneath it, on top, next to it?”

“Nothing that stands out. It was resting on other bags, not against the side of the dumpster, though it was close to the front. I could have reached it without getting into the dumpster. Nah. All I see in my mind’s eye are county trash bags with office trash. Except for the bakery bags I’d just tossed in, but I’d thrown them toward the other back corner.

“Which reminds me, did you happen to spot my phone?”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot I had it.” He pulled it out of a front pocket on his jeans and handed it to me.

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” I moaned. “Straight from a dumpster to my hospital bed.”

“Glad to do it.” He grinned.

“Keep it up, smart guy. You forget that I can order you to take yourself over to the state hospital.”

Greta said, “Are you sure someone hit you? Maybe you tripped and fell.”

“Can’t really say one way or the other, Hun. I remember walking in the door, then waking up to Tate, smearing blood all over my head.”

“Tate, couldn’t he have just fallen against something?”

“It’s possible, Greta, but there was nothing nearby that showed any blood or was a likely object he might have fallen against. Being hit by something like a pipe would account for things much better.”

“What about the door knob? He could have hit that. It’s rounded, like a pipe.”

I caught his eye and winked with my left eye, which Greta couldn’t see from where she sat, squeezing my right hand. “You know, Tate, she’s right. You might want to take another look at that door knob.”

“I’ll do that. I’m going back up there, anyway.”

Greta’s grip on my hand, which had tightened, relaxed a little.

After Tate left, I asked Greta to call the Center and tell Liz Garrison, the Administrative Services Team manager, that my head hurt too much for visitors, and that I was being discharged in the morning, anyway.

Greta asked Liz to spread the word. Then I heard Greta say, “No, now Tate thinks he just fell down and hit his head on the doorknob.” She listened to something Liz was saying, and began to shake her head.

“No, that’s wrong. You can tell them I was right here when Tate said it.”

“Thanks, Liz, see you tomorrow. B’bye.” Greta’s “bye-bye” was always with a quick, clipped, somewhat quiet delivery, like a double-tap from a silenced .22 caliber pistol.

All the while, she continued to hold on to my hand.

I nodded off, to wake when my supper tray was delivered. Greta released my hand and pulled the over-bed table closer. Then she pulled the cover off the plate.

She said, “I was getting hungry, until I saw this.”

“An example of the currently faddish Unappetizing Food Diet. Looks like it’s meant to simulate roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy. And I think these are supposed to be peas. Shapes seem right, but the colors need some work. Oh. How ‘bout this. It’s cold but it looks hot.”

She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I’m going to go. I need to eat supper. There’s a guy Chet’s going meet before the AA meeting and he wants me to see him. I’ll see you in the morning, Oh Great Clumsy One.”

“Sleep well, Toots. How ‘bout a better kiss before you go?”

She came back and kissed my lips, then rattled the rails on the side of the bed. “Make sure these stay up. I don’t want you bouncing your head around again. Night.”

When Greta left, I turned on the flat panel TV on the far wall, but the rapid scene and light changes seemed to aggravate my headache and, interestingly, bring back hints of the nausea, so I shut it off, then fell asleep. A nurse, or another of those white-uniformed minions, woke me up, apparently just a few minutes later, and asked me what my name was and what the date was. I guess going to sleep was one of the symptoms they were worried about.

It made for a long night.

Wednesday, June 12

In the morning, just after another entree from the Unappetizing Food Diet -- chalky oatmeal and cold, dry toast -- Emily Iverson, arrived on the scene.

It always seemed strange to me, when working with nurse practitioners, that they didn’t have a formal title, similar to calling an MD’s “Doctor.” I suppose “Nurse” might have worked, but it sounded like a 1930’s movie. On the other hand, every NP I’d ever been associated with was soon on a first name basis, so maybe a formal title would have been wasted.

Emily was in jeans and a light blue, button-up blouse cut like a man’s dress shirt. Might have been a man’s dress shirt, for that matter, sized for a small man. She parked one of those blood pressure gadgets, a digital sphygmomanometer on an old-fashioned wheeled pole stand, just inside the door. Fastening the small box to the three-wheeled stand probably kept anyone from casually removing it from the hospital.

“Morning, Em. Going to let me out a’ here?” I was sitting on the side of the bed, with my empty breakfast tray on the bed table in front of me. Emily pushed the table aside.

She had her trademark grin on her freckled, gamin face. “We’ll just have to see, Gary. There’s a petition going around the Center, asking that you be held here, pending hell’s next ice storm. How’s the head?” Emily, at 33, was about five-three, with a girlish figure. She had short, auburn hair, and flashing, green eyes, and she always looked like she was ready for mischief.

“Continuous dull ache. If I move my head too fast, I am immediately sorry that I did.”

“Vision okay?”

“Haven’t noticed anything.”

She pulled a light out of her pocket and began shining it into one of my eyes, then the other. At one point, she said, “Follow the light with just your eyes; try not to move your head.” Then she moved the light side to side, then up and down, then she had me do the same thing while I covered one eye and then the other. Then she moved the light in circles one way, then the other direction, then the first way again.

That’s when I realized that she was messing with me, so I crossed my eyes and said, “Ow! Felt like something just snapped!” I had her for about a half second, too, before she started grinning, again.

She said, “That’s what happens to roving eyes.”

She put the light back in her pocket and held out both her hands and said, “Give me your hands. Now squeeze.”

She let go and said, “Good. Have you been up to use the toilet?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Any trouble walking? Dizziness? Weakness on one side? Limp? One foot feels colder or tingles?”

“No to all, except I felt a little dizzy when I first stood up this morning, lasted only a second or two. The effort of getting past this bed rail caused some minor throbbing in my head. Haven’t noticed anything else. Oh, except my urine came out blue, with white stripes.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. Nothing to worry about.” She walked over to the door and retrieved the blood pressure gadget, pushing the room door nearly closed, leaving it an inch ajar.

She rolled the cart over to the bed and I held out my right arm. She wrapped the pressure cuff around my bicep, then began to pump up the cuff.

As the pressure increased, I said, “I’ve always found it remarkable that medical care providers do so many things that actually hurt their customers physically: stabbing, cutting, squishing. Yet their business thrives.”

She continued pumping the cuff. “Aw, does da bad cuff huwt your wddtow awm? Poor baby. Rest your hand here, maybe things won’t hurt so much.”

She took my right hand and slid it into her shirt, where she’d apparently opened a couple buttons when she went to the door. My hand ended up resting on her small, bare breast under her shirt. She usually didn’t wear a bra. I lightly pinched her nipple. She gasped, quietly. This was not helping my blood pressure.

Emily and I were lovers.

I’d met Emily and her husband, Greg, at a Christmas party at Nancy and John Stoessel’s home that first year we’d moved here. My only interaction with her at that occasion was comprised of glad-to-meet-you handshakes and noticing that she was short and he was tall, even taller than me. “Mutt and Jeff” popped into my mind. I don’t recall seeing or speaking to either of them again that night.

I spent most of that evening talking to John Stoessel, Frank Garrison -- Liz’s husband -- and another guy, I forget his name. John, Frank and the other guy all worked for Northwestern Forestry Partnership, a consulting group that advised lumber and logging companies about eco-friendly logging and processing methods on a site-by-site basis. Or at least that’s how I understood it.

Our main topic of conversation was about local forest roads that were accessible for RVs and the scenic places those roads led to, several being good “boon-docking” destinations: a remote place to park the RV away from campgrounds and their utility hook-ups. All three owned camper slide-ins for their pickup trucks, while Greta’s and my second “car” was a mini motorhome. I’d been annoyed because, despite having three days off every weekend, we hardly ever used the RV for overnight outings. What I came away with from that party was a list of several nearby streamside or otherwise scenic locations that sounded perfect for a quiet RV weekend.

The next time Emily’s name came up was when Greta had a bad cold she couldn’t shake and we decided a medical consult was in order. She asked Nancy Stoessel who she went to, and Nancy recommended Emily.