Читать книгу Twyla's Last Trip - Karen Mueller Bryson - Страница 3

A female hand removed a large rat from a cage filled with its squealing rat mates. She placed the creature next to a small guillotine. The animal quivered at the sight of the instrument of its ultimate demise. The rat’s head was placed on a chopping block but right before the female hand could make a final chop, an older woman’s nasal voice blared from an intercom. “Lucinda. You have an urgent call.”

As twenty-eight year old Lucinda Starr removed her hand from the tiny guillotine, the rat seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Lucinda peeled off her lab goggles and tossed them onto the counter. She tapped her student assistant, Reno Reynolds, on the shoulder, completely startling him. As he tumbled off of his lab bench, Lucinda grabbed the scrawny undergraduate’s elbow mid-air and saved him from the embarrassment of a full fall.

“Are you okay,” Lucinda asked matter-of-factly.

Reno tried to compose himself, but it proved difficult for the perpetually awkward young man.

“I need you to finish prepping that rat for me,” Lucinda continued.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Reno stuttered as he glanced over at the rat, which seemed to give him a pleading look.

Lucinda glared at Reno.

“I mean, yes, Miss Lucinda,” Reno corrected.

Lucinda's gaze turned icy.

“Ms. Lucinda,” the assistant squeaked.

“Have it done before I get back,” Lucinda barked as she hurried out of the lab.

In the Neuropsychology Department’s reception area, Bunny Walters, a plump receptionist, typed on an out-dated desktop computer. Behind her, a radio played the country hit “Hurricane in My Heart.” Bunny turned up the volume—slightly.

After a moment, Lucinda stormed up to the reception desk. “What is that?” she shrieked.

Bunny glanced around.

Lucinda scowled at her. “That noise,” she said.

“Hurricane in My Heart,” Bunny replied meekly. “Today is the song's twenty-fifth anniversary. It's the biggest selling country song in history. Outsold Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, even Dolly Parton.”

“I hate it,” Lucinda said sourly.

Bunny shut the radio off then held up a message. Lucinda stared at the small sheet of paper as if it was diseased.

“Mr. Yates,” said Bunny. “He phoned four times in the last hour. He said he's your mother's attorney.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Lucinda said as she snatched the message from Bunny's hand and stormed away.

Back in the laboratory, Lucinda peered intently into her microscope until Bunny's voice blared from the intercom—again. “I'm sorry to bother you, Lucinda, but Mr. Yates is on the phone. He says he won't hang up until he speaks with you personally.”

Lucinda took a deep breath, stood and exited the lab. She marched over to the reception desk and ripped the phone from Bunny's grasp.

“Lucinda Starr,” she growled into the phone. “How may I help you?”

Thirty-year old T.J. Yates, the epitome of all things country, spoke to Lucinda from his cell phone. “Miss Starr,” he said. “I know we've never met but I've been your mom's attorney now for nearly a decade.”

“Will you please get to the point?” Lucinda interrupted. “I'm in the middle of an extremely important experiment.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but your mom has passed away.”

Lucinda flinched slightly but then it was back to business. “And what does this have to do with me?” she asked.

“Well, Miss Starr, you are the sole beneficiary of your mom's estate.”

“Estate?” Lucinda snorted. “My mother was a cat lady, who lived in a trailer.”

“Miss Starr,” T.J. continued. “I don't think you understand.”

Before T.J. could finish, Lucinda slammed the phone into the receiver and hurried away.

T.J. looked at his cell phone dumbfounded. People never hung up on him, especially women.

Dakota, his two-year old bloodhound, glanced up from her doggie pillow and gave her head a tilt.

“I think this requires a little trip up to Chicago,” T.J. said.

Dakota just yawned and plopped her head back down on her bed.

T.J.’s beater pick-up truck passed a sign that read: Leaving Galesburg—Birthplace of Carl Sandburg. Three hours later, he knew he was in the Windy City, when he passed a sign that read: Welcome to Chicago.

“Boy, do I hate the city,” T.J. remarked as he trekked down the ever-active Michigan Ave. Decked out in a cowboy hat and matching boots, he looked out of place amongst all the Armani suits.

A few moments later, T.J. approached a newsstand where an Asian Indian woman was straightening her stock of gum and singing along with the radio. She didn’t notice T.J. as she belted out the words of the country hit, “Lovin' you is like a hurricane in my heart. You're nothin' but a hurricane. A hurricane in my heart.”

When she finally glanced up, the woman was startled at the sight of T.J.

“I love this song,” the woman said a bit embarrassed.

T.J. handed her several coins.

“I wonder whatever happened to Twyla Starr,” the woman continued. “She vanished right after the song became a hit.”

“I understand she's no longer with us,” T.J. said.

“That’s very sad. She must not have been that old.”

“Forty-nine,” said T.J. “So, I've heard.”

The woman shook her head. “So young.”

T.J. nodded and grabbed a pack of mints.

A few minutes later, T.J. found himself standing in front of the ultra-modern Institute for Brain and Bioscience building. “This must be the place,” he said to himself as he removed his hat and entered the building.

Bunny was typing furiously on her computer when T.J. approached. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I'm T.J. Yates. I'm here to see Miss Starr.”

T.J.'s down-home charm temporarily memorized Bunny. When she was able to compose herself, Bunny said, “Ms. Starr. Not Miss.”

An awkward moment of silence went by as the two studied each other. Finally T.J. said, “Would you let Ms. Starr know I'm here?”

“She's very busy,” said Bunny.

T.J. held up a manila envelope. “I have some documents I need to speak with her about.”

Bunny reached her hand out to take the envelope but T.J. pulled back. “I'd really like to speak with Ms. Starr,” he said. “I made a trip all the way from Galesburg.”

“The birthplace of Carl Sandburg,” Bunny said. “The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.”

Bunny reddened with sudden embarrassment. “I'm studying English,” she said. “I’m a night student.”

T.J. grinned.

“I'll see what I can do for you.” Bunny gave him a quick smile then whispered into the intercom.

After what seemed like an eternity, T.J glanced at his watch for the thousandth time and sighed.

Finally, Lucinda graced him with her presence. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.

“Are you really?” T.J. asked.

“No,” Lucinda snapped.

“I didn't think so.”

“What do you want, Mr. Yates?”

“Can we speak somewhere a bit more private?”

Lucinda was about to protest until she looked into T.J.'s determined eyes. “I only have a minute,” she said.

As Lucinda led T.J. into the rat breeding area, he was horrified by the sight of hundreds of caged rats. Then the little guillotine caught his attention. “I don't even what to know what that's for,” he remarked.

“And I was just getting ready to give you a demonstration,” Lucinda said.

“I came here to talk about your mom.”

Lucinda sighed.

T.J. continued, “There are certain issues with regards to her estate that I need to discuss with you.”

“I'll make sure her cats are all placed in good homes.”

“It's more complicated than that.”

“If you just leave the paperwork with me, I'll sign it and make whatever arrangements are necessary for the disposal of my mother's personal effects.” Lucinda straightened her lab coat and made a not-so-subtle motion for T.J. to leave.

T.J. smiled to himself. He shoved the manila envelope into Lucinda's hand then made a show of placing his cowboy hat on his head. “After you've read the will, if you have any questions, be sure to give me a holler,” he said then chuckled to himself as he exited.

Everything in Lucinda’s entire studio apartment was white. Clinical. Sterile. There was no evidence of life except for Lucinda herself, in a white sweat suit, lounging on her couch. She sipped a glass of Pinot noir, closed her eyes for a moment then took a deep breath. She grabbed the manila envelope from the coffee table, opened it then glanced at the contents. She took another sip of wine as she read the documents more closely—then spit the red liquid all over everything.

“A hundred million dollars,” she shouted.

A moment later, Lucinda was on her cell phone.

T.J. was sitting on a rocking chair, gazing at the night sky with Dakota curled up at his feet, when his cell phone rang.

“Took her longer than I thought,” he said to Dakota, who merely sighed.

He answered his cell. “This is T.J.”

“How in the world did my mother make a hundred million dollars?” Lucinda yelled into the phone.

T.J. said, “I guess you'll have to make your way down to Galesburg to find out,” and hung up on her.

Lucinda stared at her phone with a look of utter disbelief. No one had ever hung up on her before.

Back in the lab the following day, Reno began to sway as Lucinda piled stacks of files into his arms.

“You'll need to take measurements every day,” said Lucinda.

“I know,” Reno replied.

“Three times an hour,” Lucinda continued.

“I know,” Reno repeated.

Another file joined the stack weighing down Reno's arms.

“And don't forget to document every change, not matter how minute,” Lucinda said.

“I'm really sorry to hear about your mom.”

“We weren't close.”

“Galesburg is the birthplace of Carl Sandburg,” Reno said in an effort to change the subject. “They have a museum there, if you have time.”

“Could my mother have picked a worse time to die? I have my dissertation defense in less than a month and I'm still finalizing the analysis of my data. I'm going to drive down there, work out the details, make whatever arrangements are necessary then drive back. I shouldn't be gone more than eight hours.”

“I'll take care of everything while you're away,” Reno assured her. “You just worry about your mom.”

Lucinda’s Mini-Cooper Convertible passed a sign that read: Leaving Chicago. A few hours later, she passed a sign that read: Welcome to Galesburg—Birthplace of Carl Sandburg. “Boy, do I hate the country,” she said.

The Mini Cooper came to a stop outside an old shack of a building and Lucinda hopped out of the car. She glanced at the building's sign: T.J. Yates Attorney at Law. “This must be the place,” Lucinda grunted as she entered the office.

Lucinda immediately noticed Dakota lying on a pillow in the corner, snoring. “Some watchdog,” she remarked.

Dakota merely glanced up at her and sighed.

Lucinda noticed a bell sitting on the desk. She rang it. Nothing happened, so she rang it again.

“I'm out back,” a voice boomed.

Lucinda scanned the room and spotted an open back door. She exited on to a back porch, where she could see T.J. working on an old Chevy.

“Is this a law office or a body shop?” Lucinda asked sarcastically.

T.J. freed himself from the vehicle and stood. “Well, look who made it all the way to Galesburg.”

Lucinda folded her arms in front of her. “I don't have much time,” she said.

Grabbing a cloth, T.J. wiped the dirt from his hands. “You left city-time back in Chicago, Ms. Starr. You're on country time now. We do things a little different here in Galesburg. Can I offer you some sweet tea?”

“If you would just answer a few questions for me, then I'll be on my way.”

“I guess you didn't get a chance to read the entire document I left with you. Why don't we have a seat inside? Get out of the heat.”

The two walked back into T.J.’s office. T.J. made himself comfortable and rested his old boots on top of the weathered Mahogany desk.

While Lucinda wiggled uncomfortably in an old folding chair, Dakota ambled over and rested her head in Lucinda's lap. She gave the creature a look of utter disgust.

“Seems as though Dakota's taken a liking to you,” said T.J.

“Get it off of me,” Lucinda said as she tried to push Dakota from her lap.

“She doesn't care for many people. She must sense something special about you.”

Lucinda was not having much luck getting the dog off of her. “It's all gooey,” she complained. “Please get it off of me.”

T.J. clapped and Dakota glanced up at her master. “Okay, Girl,” T.J. said. “That's enough.”

Dakota gave Lucinda a long, sad look then lumbered back to her pillow. Sudden horror crossed Lucinda's face when she noticed that Dakota had left something in her lap. “What is that?”

“Bloodhound drool,” T.J. snickered. “It ain't gonna kill you.”

T.J. handed Lucinda some tissues and she wiped the drool from her lap. She made a point of sticking the wet tissues right in the middle of T.J.'s desk.

“I came here to find out about my mother's estate,” Lucinda said.

“I figured a hundred million would get your attention.”

“Would you mind telling me how my mother acquired all that money?”

“Hurricane in My Heart.”

“What?” Lucida wasn’t sure she heard him correctly.

T.J. turned on an old tape recorder and played the country hit. When the song finished, Lucinda shook her head in disbelief. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Your mother wrote the biggest selling country song in history,” said T.J. “She invested well and never spent a cent of it. The fortune will be yours when you fulfill the terms of your mom's will.”

“What terms?” A bit of nervousness crept into Lucinda’s otherwise stoic demeanor.

T.J. raised an eyebrow. “You really didn’t read the entire document I left with you.”

“The part where it said a hundred million dollars threw me a little bit.”

“Something actually threw you?” T.J. asked sarcastically. He grabbed his copy of the will, opened to the middle of the document and began to read aloud. “In order to inherit my estate, my daughter, Lucy Starr—”

T.J. gave Lucinda a sly grin then continued. “Must take me on one last trip. She must take my ashes from Chicago to Santa Monica along the famous Route 66 and make every stop I have designated along the way. Lucy has eight days from the reading of this will to complete the trip or she will forfeit all rights to my estate.”

One lone bead of sweat dripped down Lucinda’s forehead. “This isn't possible,” she said. “I don't have time for a trip. I don't have time to grab dinner on the way back to Chicago. I've got data to compile. I've got a dissertation to defend. How can I possibly take my mother's ashes on a trip across the country? Is she mad?”

“She's dead,” T.J. reminded her.

“This is insane!” Lucinda screeched, fast approaching a state of utter frenzy.