Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,47

her about the nursing home. Secretly they’d packed her things and loaded them into the trunk of Papa’s Cadillac the night before. “Just tell Momma that she’s going for another check-up at the hospital,” they’d told him to say, and then they had to get home to their jobs and families.

But despite her advanced Alzheimer’s, Momma’s memory was clear when it came to remembering doctors’ appointments, and she protested suspiciously the next morning when he and Papa bundled her into the car. Momma had looked back over her shoulder at him as they wheeled her down the hall, and her eyes were shadowed with the hurt of betrayal. “You’re going to leave me here, aren’t you,” she said dully.

The memory of that look crowded memories of Nam from his nightmares.

After that, Marsden had avoided going home. He did visit Momma briefly when Papa had his first stroke, but she hadn’t recognized him.

Papa had survived his first stroke and, several months later, had surprised them all again and survived his second stroke. But that had been almost a year ago from the night Marsden and his sister had sat talking in the kitchen while Papa dozed in his wheelchair. That first stroke had left him weak on the one side; the second had taken away part of his mind. The family had tried to maintain him at home with live-in nursing care, but Papa’s health slowly deteriorated, physically and mentally.

It was time to call for Michael.

And Michael came.

“Besides,” Nancy reassured him, “Papa only wants to be near Momma. He still insists on trying to get over to visit her every day. You can imagine what a strain that’s been on everyone here.”

“I can guess,” said Michael, pouring more vodka into his glass.

“Where are we going, son?” Papa had asked the next morning, as Marsden lifted him into the Cadillac. Papa’s vision was almost gone now, and his voice was hard to understand.

“I’m taking you to be with Momma for awhile,” Marsden told him. “You want that, don’t you?”

Papa’s dim eyes stared widely at the house as they backed down the driveway. He turned to face Michael. “But when are you bringing Momma and me back home again, son?”

Never, as it turned out. Marsden paused outside his mother’s room, wincing at the memory. Over the past year their various health problems had continued their slow and inexorable progress toward oblivion. Meanwhile health care bills had mushroomed, eroding insurance coverage, the last of their pensions, and a lifetime’s careful savings. It was time to put the old family home on the market, to make some disposal of a lifetime’s possessions. It had to be done.

Papa called for Michael.

“Don’t let them do this to us, son.” The family held power of attorney now. “Momma and I want to go home.”

So Michael came home.

The white-haired lady bent double over her walker as she inched along the hallway wasn’t watching him. Marsden took a long swig of vodka and replaced the pint bottle. Momma didn’t like to see him drink.

She was sitting up in her jerrycart staring at the television when Marsden stepped inside her room and closed the door. They’d removed her dinner tray but hadn’t cleaned her up, and bits of food littered the front of her dressing gown. She looked up, and her sunken eyes showed recognition.

“Why, it’s Michael!” She held out her food-smeared arms to him.

“My baby!”

Marsden accepted her slobbery hug. “I’ve come for you, Momma,” he whispered, as Momma began to cry.

She covered her face with her hands and continued weeping, as Marsden stepped behind her and opened his flight bag. The silencer was already fitted to the Hi-Standard .22, and Marsden quickly pumped three hollow-points through the back of his mother’s head. It was over in seconds. Little noise, and surely no pain. No more pain.

Marsden left his mother slumped over in her jerrycart, picked up his canvas bag, and closed the door. Then he walked on down the hall to his father’s room.

He went inside. Papa must have been getting up and falling again, because he was tied to his wheelchair by a bath towel about his waist.

“Who’s that?” he mumbled, turning his eyes toward Marsden.

“It’s Michael, Papa. I’m here to take you home.”

Papa lost sphincter control as Marsden untied the knotted towel. He was trying to say something—it sounded like “Bless you, son”—then Marsden lovingly shot him three times through the back of his skull. Papa would have fallen out of the wheelchair, but Marsden caught him. He