Rip Your Heart Out Page 6

  Turning the skeleton key, simply labeled "front", in the lock took nearly all the strength I possessed. I didn't know how in the world the owner, in her weak and ailing condition, could have even unlocked her own front door. Remember to bring a can of WD-40 with you tomorrow, I told myself. As the key finally rotated enough to turn the tumblers inside the lock, I heard the wailing again, louder this time. Startled, I resisted the urge to flee.

  The sound seemed to come from above me. I looked up to see a hole in the lean-to style roof over the porch and realized the wailing sound was caused by wind whistling through the gap. I breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door. The creaking that ensued was incredible. Bring two cans of WD-40. This entire house may need to be doused with it, I thought.

  Tentatively, I stepped into the spacious foyer. Looking around, I saw a number of old, oval frames hanging from the walls. The photographs inside the frames were of stern-looking people who appeared to be my age but were probably only in their twenties and thirties. The photos were evidently taken before the smile was invented.

  All of the antique frames were in dire need of a dusting, as was everything else in the entryway: a wooden church pew, a full suit of armor, a marble table with a vase of dead, dried-up flowers, and a large wool rug that had a paisley design woven into it.

  As I took a step onto the rug, a clearly-discernible cloud of dust arose from the fabric. I wheezed at the thought of the zillions of dust mites that had to be swarming throughout the room.

  I looked around the foyer and saw several sizable dust bunnies, each of which had hopped into a different corner of the room to hide. Using my index finger, I could have written my name in the thick layer of dust on the top of the marble table. A can or two of furniture polish along with a box of old rags would be handy, too, I thought, as I added the items to my mental list. Housekeeping was never one of my favorite activities, but I almost looked forward to giving this old place a once-over.

  I exited the foyer and entered what I would refer to as a drawing room. In the era of this house's heyday, it would have been the room where visitors would gather for a cup of tea and an hour or so of gossip. Now there were only two sofas, a square, glass-topped coffee table, and a few chairs covered with plastic tarps. In the corner, stood an uncovered mahogany grand piano: a fabulous, and, no doubt, expensive Steinway Model D.

  Had Mabel been a pianist? I wondered. She'd only been dead for a couple of weeks according to her niece. Yet the drawing room appeared as if it hadn't been lived in for many years. Except for the Steinway piano, which looked as if it'd just been polished moments before my arrival. The pristine piano had sheet music resting against the music rack. It was the notes for a Franz Liszt piece that looked extremely technical and demanding. It was apparent whoever had been playing the piece was a gifted musician. The keyboard and pedals were as shiny as the sheen of the mahogany.

  I walked through the drawing room and on into the kitchen. A small gray mouse skittered across the room, startling me. My heart skipped a beat or two, but a loud, shrill, "Get out!" shocked it right back into rhythm. My eyes darted to the origin of the scream. It was Goofus, the cockatoo, who repeated his demand several more times as he rocked back and forth on his perch.

  "Well, hello, Goofus," I said. The fidgety bird continued to rock and squawk.

  "Go away! Dwop dead, old bwag! Scwam Sam!"

  "Now, now," I said softly, trying to calm the bird. If Goofus weren't so unwelcoming, I might have found his habit of adding a "wa" sound to many of his words endearing. Instead, I found it irritating. "Chill out, Goofus. My name's Rapella, not Sam. And I'll scram when I'm good and ready. I've come to feed you, not harm you."

  "Go away! Can't eat that! Kill that dwam dog!" Goofus's pink head was bobbing up and down as he rattled on. He had striking plumage atop his head, bands of yellow and red at the base, culminating in white tips. Goofus was of the Major Mitchell's species, Sydney had said. He was noisy, but he was incredibly beautiful. At that moment, however, he appeared to be extremely agitated, like a lunatic who'd gone off his meds. "Vamoose! You be cwuising for a bwuising! Birdie want a cwacker?"

  The bird's behavior was so manic, I was afraid to open his cage to put a scoop of the seed, nut, and dried-fruit mixture in his food bowl. I did my best to toss a small scoopful through the gaps in his wire cage. About half of the mixture fell outside the cage, so I refilled the scoop and tried again to make sure a sufficient amount landed in the bizarre bird's food dish. The gravity-fed water bottle hanging in his cage was two-thirds full. Good enough for now, I thought.

  "Speaking of killing the dog, Goofus, where's your brother, Gallant?"

  As if in response to my question, I heard a whining behind me. I turned around and saw one of the largest dogs I'd ever laid eyes on. I froze until the St. Bernard tenderly laid his left front paw on my arm. I patted him on the head, relieved that he appeared as mild as milquetoast; docile and seemingly submissive. I could actually visualize two hyper Yorkshire terriers circling the gentle giant like a swarm of bees, nipping at his lower legs as he stood idly by with the same tranquil look of contentment that was apparent on his furry face right then.

  "I like you better than your brother already," I said to the massive dog as I caressed the back of his head. "But you'd make a pitiful guard dog, sneaking up on me like you did. You'd lead intruders right to the valuable jewelry and polished silver, wouldn't you, boy? Can you speak?"

  "Ruff, ruff."

  "Oh, so you can speak. Good boy!"

  "Ruff, ruff."

  "Can you sit?"

  On command, Gallant sat on his haunches. He looked at me pleadingly. I knew he was waiting for a treat in reward for his obedience. I thought back to what Sydney had told me. Gallant's food was in the broom closet beside the refrigerator. I checked the contents of the closet and, although there were no brooms or mops to be found, I found a fifty-pound bag of dog food and several boxes of extra-large dog bones.

  I walked back over to Gallant, who was waiting patiently. "You'll have to show me more of your tricks to earn your reward. Can you roll over?"

  Gallant remained motionless. He was still gazing into my eyes with anticipation.

  "Roll over," I repeated. The dog didn't even flinch. "Okay, boy. We'll have to work on that one. Still, you are a smart fellow, so I am sure you will pick the trick up easily. Can you shake hands?"

  Gallant raised his left paw. I shook it and gave him a beef-flavored bone. "Aha! You're a south paw! You're such a sweet boy, Gallant. I wish your brother was as hospitable as you are."

  With one clench of his large jaw, Gallant crushed the bone into a zillion pieces. While he made short order of the treat, I filled his bowl with food. Next, I clipped the leash I'd found next to the box of dog bones onto Gallant's collar and took him outside so he could do his duties. There was a break in the precipitation, and I wanted to take advantage of the dry spell.

  Before exiting the kitchen, I looked around for a box of doggie doo-doo bags, because I wouldn't feel right not picking up after Gallant. All I could come up with was a quart-sized Ziploc bag. I soon learned the small bag was akin to taking a garden hose to a five-alarm fire. A shovel and wheelbarrow would have been more appropriate for collecting Gallant's calling card. I left the pile where Gallant had deposited it, vowing to collect it the next day when I had something large enough to handle the job.

  After I took Gallant for a walk up and down South Hart Street, I noticed the sun was beginning to set on the western horizon. I needed to stop at the store on the way back to the RV park, so I decided I'd wait to investigate the rest of the house when I returned in the morning. I bade farewell to Goofus and Gallant, only one of which had instantly warmed my heart. The smaller of the two scared the holy crap out of me. I wasn't sure I'd ever have guts enough to get within pecking distance of the maniacal creature in the cage.

  As I retraced my route to the front door, I heard a moaning sound coming from a nearby room. I knew I should check out
the source of the sound. Instead, my instinct was to skedaddle out of the house and race up the sidewalk to the safety of our Chevy truck. I didn't know how or why there'd be someone in the house besides me. Still, I sensed eyes on me as I hurried through the drawing room. Have you ever felt someone looking at you? That's the feeling I experienced right then. I chalked up the disturbing sensation to the intense stares of the people looking out from the oval picture frames. When I reached the front porch, I saw no other vehicles on the property, unless there was one parked inside the sad-sack garage.

  I had to assume the Heart Shack had not opened up to residents yet. I felt sure they'd do a thorough cleaning of the home before they welcomed guests. It was unfit for human habitation as it stood, and the uneasiness I felt inside the home was overwhelming. Rip would be released from the hospital soon so I wouldn't have to be alone in the house overnight. I had no plans to relocate until then and was having second thoughts about the entire deal.

  I'd stop by in the morning, as I'd promised. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me, and in the light of day the old run-down place would seem more welcoming.

  * * *

  Wishful thinking, as it turned out. Daylight did not make the house any more appealing. It only made the red paint job look more atrocious and the building itself appear more condemnable. The sunlight actually caused the house's flaws to stand out more prominently. I decided to use our cell phone to capture photographs of the property to show Rip when I got to the hospital.

  There'd be no time to rest on my laurels, for Rip's release was imminent. I knew the home had once been a place of grandeur, but those days were long gone. Too many moons had risen and set since then. Too many, in fact, since it'd even seen a broom or a dust rag, except for the piano. There's no way we're moving in this run-down structure until the cobwebs have been removed and the place is sparkling clean, if not nearly sterile. I'll have it spotless before I bring Rip here, I vowed. But how? How am I, alone, going to get the house up to snuff in so little time?

  After struggling with the skeleton key, I walked in like I owned the place. I was determined not to let the grime, the eerie sounds, the peculiar photographs of grim-faced people whose eyes seem to follow me as I walked through the room, or even the startling screeches by Goofus freak me out that morning. With my phone's camera, I took a number of photographs in the foyer and the drawing room before I moved on to the kitchen. If nothing else, I'd have "before" pictures to show Rip after the place had been spruced up so he'd appreciate all of the hard work I did to make it livable. I noticed what looked like a tiny pair of needle-nose pliers lying on the marble table when I snapped a photo of the entryway. I didn't recall seeing them the previous day, but I'd been pretty overwhelmed by the home's condition at the time.

  "Go away, whinsp!" Goofus squawked as I stepped into the over-sized kitchen. I'm not sure what startled me the most: Goofus's rude but not totally unexpected greeting that reminded me of the scream in my nightmare, or the loud squeaking of the wooden floor beneath my feet.

  I figured the bird had meant to call me a wench, rather than a whinsp. Whatever he'd meant to say, I'm sure it was demeaning. I didn't appreciate the ill-tempered cockatoo's name-calling. And I found his speech impediment even less delightful than I had the previous day. If nothing else, it'd become obvious how the two pets' names had come about.

  Suddenly I jumped, spinning around like a top, at the feel of Gallant's nose goosing me from behind. I laughed at the surprised expression on the dog's face and reached out to scratch him behind the ears. "Gee willikers, boy! Can't you bark at least once to let me know you're nearby? You'll have me lying in a bed in the cardiac care center, too, if you keep that nonsense up."

  Gallant began prancing and pawing at the closet door where his leash and food were stored. I laughed at his playful antics, but as his frolicking became more frantic, it became clear he needed to go to the bathroom, and he needed to go right then. With an empty Wal-Mart bag in one hand, I attached the leash to Gallant's collar with the other and began babbling to take my mind off my nervousness.

  "I'm sorry, boy. I'm used to a cat's bathroom habits. When Dolly needs to go, she just waddles her well-padded behind over to her litter box. Provided the litter's not so overloaded with buried treasures that it offends her sensibilities, she does her duty with no muss, no fuss, and no assistance from her humble servants. Cats may be less devoted to their owners than dogs like you, but they're certainly more self-sufficient. Come on, boy. Let's get you outside right away."

  When we returned to the kitchen, the cockatoo was raising a fuss. He called me a "goofball" and told me to get lost. I had a strong suspicion the bird had been called a goofball himself numerous times, because of his similar name. Like most talking birds, I figured he picked up and repeated words and phrases he'd heard repeatedly.

  Ignoring Goofus's outbursts, I threw some food in his cage and filled a much larger scoop with dog food for Gallant. After refilling Gallant's water bowl and checking to make sure the cockatoo wasn't in immediate danger of dying of thirst, I decided to check out the remainder of the home. I was particularly interested in the condition of the master suite.

  Upstairs, I walked up a long hallway, opening each door as I passed. Every bedroom was identical, simply furnished, and had its own private bathroom. Each room contained an antique armoire, a frameless queen-sized bed, a chest of drawers with a matching nightstand, and a large oval rug. The brand new bedding in each bedroom was in stark contrast to the dreariness of the rest of the house. The rooms weren't spotless, by any means, but they weren't in the state of grime-ridden decay I'd feared they'd be. With a few hours of scrubbing, mopping, and polishing, they could be ready to greet guests.

  I continued down the hallway. The floor squeaked, the walls emitted popping sounds, and an occasional thumping clamor echoed from various locations in the building. I steadied my nerves by reminding myself odd noises were to be expected of a home that'd probably been built in the late eighteen-hundreds. The thunderous bellowing sound coming from the attic directly above me was not expected, however, and I stopped so abruptly that Gallant, who'd been trailing behind me, nearly got his nose wedged in the crack of my derriere.

  There has to be a reasonable explanation, I told myself. Although there had appeared to be nary a breeze when I'd entered the house, I thought perhaps the sound might be attributed to a random gust of wind reverberating in the open space between the ceiling and the roof. After all, the wood-shake shingled roof was in need of repair, or better yet, replacement. It looked as if a single ember from a bottle-rocket on Independence Day could spark a fire that'd burn the entire tinderbox to the ground.

  Yes, that's it! Wind howling through a hole in the roof is all the bellowing sound boils down to, I assured myself when I heard it a second time. No need to panic, and it made no sense at all to let my imagination run wild. It was nothing more than Mother Nature attempting to make me think I was crazy as I walked through the eerie structure.

  Half-way down the hallway was the master suite. The majority of the house had that moldy, musty smell that often accompanies nursing homes. Like rugs, elderly folks really should be taken outside and vigorously shaken at least once every two weeks. In sharp contrast, the master suite smelled like an entire can of lavender air freshener had been sprayed into the room.

  The bedroom was enchantingly warm and inviting. It had a sitting area with a large picture window that would let in a lot of natural light. I could picture myself sitting in one of the two rocking chairs facing the window with a cup of strong brew and a good book.

  The sprawling suite was surprisingly neat, tidy, and dust-free. More astonishing, it was bright and cheery, even with the drapes—which needed to go bye-bye—currently drawn. The bedroom furniture was old, but attractive. The bedspread on the four-poster bed looked brand new, to my delight.

  It briefly crossed my mind that Sydney's deceased aunt could have met her maker while lying in the king-sized bed. After some
deliberation, I decided not to inquire about it. After all, what I didn't know couldn't hurt me. Or, at least, couldn't keep me up all night wondering if I was lying in the same spot where Mabel Trumbo had inhaled her last breath.

  I took my cell phone out of my back pocket and snapped several more photos. I wanted Rip to have something to look forward to. The master suite offered some very beguiling images; the teal, peach, and yellow bedspread, a vase of fresh-cut flowers on a small round table between the rocking chairs, and an over-sized recliner next to the bed. I was certain the flowers had been placed in the room by Sydney, as a means of welcoming us to the Heart Shack.

  Rip would be particularly interested in the leather recliner, if for no other reason than there was a drink holder in the arm rest to accommodate his daily highball, and a remote control on the table next to the flower vase. I was sure the flower vase would be relocated to make room for a bag of barbecue-flavored pork rinds which, to Rip's dismay, I would replace with a bowl of carrot and celery sticks. Mounted to the wall across from the recliner was a flat-screen TV in the sixty to sixty-five-inch range. I knew Rip would be in hog heaven in his new surroundings once we'd taken up residence.

  I suddenly realized Aunt Mabel's niece might have to help me build a fire under the seat of the recliner if she seriously expected her patient to leave the cozy chair and go exercise at the cardio rehab facility. I wasn't sure it'd benefit either of us to have the Heart Shack become too comfortable.

  Cozy and comfy were not words that would compel Rip to work toward complete recovery, or even compel me to badger him about it. Sydney sounded as if she wanted us to continue to occupy the place until Rip had returned to his former tip-top condition or, for the sake of accuracy, his former sub-par, but reasonably passable, physical condition.