Just Joe
Richard C. Russell
Copyright 2009 by Richard C. Russell
Smashwords Edition
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Just Joe
Chapter One
So this is Hollywood, I told myself as I walked along the sidewalks. There was a shortage of pedestrians for a city this size. Los Angeles is an enormous city. Or to be more precise, L.A. is an enormous conglomeration of many small cities. Hollywood is just one of them. The balmy, bright, sunny city had a Mediterranean favor. Maybe some of that is due to the palm trees and the many Hispanics on the sidewalks. Our brown brothers, I thought. I had a great deal of experience with our brown brothers.
As I walked along, I studied the natives. It was habit, and I did it on an almost subconscious level. Most had heavy tans. The darker ones were the Hispanics. There were many of those. I memorized the way they dressed, their mannerisms, and the way they walked. Instinctively, I was already copying their long-legged, loose-gaited walk.
Confident, I thought. They all seemed so confident. As if, they thought of themselves as being invulnerable. My ears captured their loud speech patterns. Laid back–that’s the phrase, isn’t it? I asked myself. Or is that out of date? I was behind on the latest catchphrases. As I walked, I also looked for possible escape routes. Old habits are hard to break.
Most of them were dressed casually and wore sunglasses. Look at me they seemed to be saying, I am just so unique and so special. They were an egotistical bunch. It was the opposite of my modus operandi. Blending in and becoming unnoticeable was my protective camouflage. Like a chameleon, I had lived most of my adult life in foreign places where streets were crowded and noisy. I felt like an alien in my own homeland. Need sunglasses and a tan, I started a mental note.
They seemed to feel so confident and immune. As if violence could never, or would never, touch them. Their sense of invulnerability was like a mass hallucination. They were all living in a dream world, because I could touch any of them at any time at any place. It was what I did for a living; well, it was what I used to do for a living. Fatal violence, covertly or overtly applied, had been my profession for the past twenty-five years. I was retired now and living the good life. But for how long, I kept asking myself. The constant tingling sensation on the back of my neck wouldn’t go away–it was like a sixth sense that had saved my life many times.
I walked along for some time before coming to a wide sidewalk with big stars embedded in its surface. Pressed into the concrete sections for several blocks in front of what had been a fancy old movie theater were the names and handprints of major movie stars, past and present. Multi-colored gawkers with cameras bent, knelt, and photographed. Tourists, they’re the same the world over, I told myself, as I weaved around the vacationers. Interesting, I thought. Maybe people in some future time would wonder what it had all meant–why the stars, and why the handprints?
Our civilization leaves much to desire, I thought. Of course, we’re still relatively new at behaving in a civilized manner. We’re still in the dog-eat-dog phase of our social development. Maybe future generations would get it right. Unfortunately, I am a confirmed pessimist when it comes to humankind. In the past, I had seen and done too many things in the name of national security. These days, I am primarily concerned with my own personal security.
After walking a long way across other streets, I came to one named Rodeo Drive. I turned to the right and walked slowly along; passing high-priced shops that sold very expensive jewelry, clothes, purses, shoes, and luggage. Trinkets for rick folks, I thought as I looked into the large plate-glass display windows.
Less than three hours ago, I had stepped down off a train from Albuquerque, New Mexico. It had rolled out of Albuquerque a day ago, after I had endured a dull ten-hour bus ride from the northeast. I had traveled continuously since retiring from my government job. And, I had covered quite a bit of the country, but there was still much more to see. I didn’t have a car, because I hated car trips. And I didn’t like to fly, mostly because it’s somewhat difficult getting off an airplane before it lands. That could be very inconvenient if someone is looking for you.
As usual, I had stashed my old cloth-traveling bag in a storage locker at the train depot. Then I had started walking. At my age, walking is good exercise. These days, it is about the only exercise I get.
Why would any sane person pay those kinds of prices? I asked myself. The amounts on most of the price tags behind the wide, gleaming windows were more than the majority of working people could earn in five or six months. Occasionally, I checked the smooth glass for reflections of anyone watching me. Old habits are hard to break.
I was walking past the shaded entrance of a parking garage when I heard the scream. It was a woman’s scream: brief, quickly muffled, and far away. I turned into the garage and ran up the ramp toward the parking areas. I had reacted impulsively by running to the rescue. My old tutors at the agency’s training facility would not have been pleased. If I had considered it rationally, I probably would have walked on past the garage. It was none of my business, and getting involved could lead to problems. Any undue public notice could be trouble for me.
Gleaming late model, expensive automobiles crowded the parking areas. Half-way across the second floor level, I heard loud moaning, grunting, and scuffling sounds. Somebody’s hand was over some woman’s mouth trying to keep her from screaming again. The sounds came from my right. I ran that way toward an interior wall.
Near a large cream-colored convertible parked in a slot at an outside wall, a woman’s purse lay on the concrete floor. I looked around, but I couldn’t see anyone. Then I heard the scuffling sounds again and saw a dark opening in the garage wall. It was a narrow alcove–probably some sort of service bay. It was about four feet wide and six feet deep. After my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw two people wrestling in a back corner.
A tall, heavy-set man was assaulting a young redheaded woman. He had torn open the front her blouse, and her large breasts were fully exposed. His big left hand cupped her mouth. She must have bitten it to be able to scream at all. His right arm was around her waist as he tried to control her struggling body. He was trying to keep her off her feet. But she was almost as tall as he was. It looked like he was trying to get her down on the floor. There wasn’t much doubt what he would do to her after she was on the floor. Maybe that was why she was working so hard to stay on her feet.
“Turn her loose!” I yelled at him. He turned to face me.
“Go away, you old asshole! Or I’ll hurt you bad!” he said in a loud, angry voice.
I don’t know why he thought saying that was going to do any good. What’s he going to do to me? I wondered. He can’t use his hand on me unless he releases his victim. I moved up to him and jabbed my extended left thumb hard into his right eye. He yelled in pain, but he didn’t let go of the woman.
****
Wendy Williams gasped for breath as she fought her attacker. His big hand was blocking her mouth and her nose so she couldn’t get enough air. His face was tight against her ear. Rough whisker stubble rubbed and scratched her cheek. He was breathing hard, and his breath was putrid with more than just whiskey fumes.
“I’m gonna fuck you, bitch!” he growled, as he tried to wrestle her to the dirty concrete floor.
Tiny buttons flew as her expensive silk blouse ripped apart in the struggle. She felt her bare breasts swing back and forth, as she fought him. She raked her high heels hard against his legs! First one, and then the other, broke off. Now even her shoes were gone. They lay somewhere scattered in the darkness. Her manicured nails cracked and broke as both hands pulled and clawed against the big arm around her waist. It was useless!
She felt herself getting weaker. She was tall and strong, but he was taller and stronger. He’s going to rape me, her mind screamed.
He had grabbed her from behind and put one big hand over her mouth just as she had gotten out of her car. He had lifted her from her feet and dragged her into the dark bay in the garage wall. The hand over her mouth had slipped a little, and she buried her teeth in his finger. Then she had screamed as loud as she could until his hand closed roughly over her mouth again.
“You’re gonna pay for that, bitch!” he cursed in her ear as he tried to throw her to the floor.
Maybe he won’t kill me, she thought desperately. She knew it was just a matter of time before she would be too weak to resist.
The next time she looked up, she saw him standing there in front of her. He was just a shadow, lit from behind by the lights in the parking garage. Hope of salvation flooded her mind! Then she looked at him more closely. He’s so little, and so old, she thought. What can he do? But maybe the two of us can beat this bastard, was her next thought. She heard her attacker challenge the older man. Amazed that he hadn’t run away, she watched him walk forward. Then, in a blur, one of his hands struck near her head. She shut her eyes tightly. Then she heard a cry of pain. The big arm around her waist was gone. She collapsed to the hard concrete floor.
****
She was looking at me. Big green eyes, wide open in shock, searched my face. Her pupils were big dark holes. There wasn’t much hope in her eyes. She didn’t see anything resembling a hero.
His head had jerked to the right. Now I had more room to work. I jabbed my right thumb into his left eye. This time, he screamed with pain. The pain would only get much worse as the bruised optic nerves began to swell.
He released the young women, put his hands over his eyes, and sank to his knees. Then he collapsed onto his side and instinctively curled into a fetal position. Now he was screaming! Soon, he would be screaming even louder, and then he would start to vomit and lose control of his bladder. No other physical pain quite matches the pain from damaged optical nerves.
Standing erect requires a lot of intricate higher brain function. Intense pain causes the brain to decide it can’t cope with the trauma from the pain and remain standing. So the brain shuts the body down, except for the deep, rapid breathing needed for screaming. It’s all a survival reflex the brain employs to allow the body time to heal.
A man can rupture his vocal cords from screaming. After that, he can still make sounds, but they hardly sound human–not something you would want to hear. Prolonged, intense pain is so excruciating, it causes men to beg for death. I hadn’t blinded him, but he needed medical attention right away. Someone would probably hear his screams and call the cops.
The woman was on her hands and knees, and she was crying hard. Her knees were scraped and bloody. Long red hair had fallen forward, covering most of her face. Her stockings were torn. Her shoes were missing. I grunted as I helped her to her feet. She was a big girl. She must be five-ten without her shoes, I thought.
We stumbled toward the big convertible. “Is this your car?” I asked her, and she nodded her head. I helped her into the front passenger seat and fastened her seat belt. Then I took off my light jacket and put it over her shoulders to cover her naked breasts.
Kneeling beside her purse, I scraped all the spilled contents back into it. The car keys were in her purse. After starting the big car, I backed it out of the parking space and drove down the exit ramps and out of the garage. She was bent over and crying as I drove west toward the ocean.
We came to a street that ran along the ocean. I pulled over and parked in an open spot at the curb next to the beach below. I ran the top up, raised all the car windows, and turned on the a/c so she wouldn’t get too hot.
“Are you all right now, Ma’am?” There was no response, just more tears. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” Again, no response. “When you feel up to it, you need to give me directions, so I can drive you home,” I told her as I reached over, opened the glove compartment, and found a small box of tissues. I gave her a handful of the tissues. She clutched them in her hand. After several more minutes, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She looked up at me with big emerald green eyes. Even half-closed, her eyes lit up her beautiful face.
Wendy heard what he said to her, but she couldn’t talk yet, and she couldn’t stop crying. Her mind was still trying to cope with the ordeal she had gone through. She clutched at the thin jacket he had put around her and pulled it tight against her breasts. She felt sore, and still afraid. But I’m all right, aren’t I? she thought. Maybe not; he didn’t rape my body, she told herself, but the son of a bitch did fuck over my mind! Hot anger dried her tears.
She looked over at the old man as he handed her some tissues. She took them and wiped at her eyes. I guess he’s not that old, she thought. Over thirty is ancient in the movie business. She remembered how fast his hands had moved as he hit her attacker. She remembered the big stinking man’s screams as he rolled on the floor. Good! I hope he’s dead! she thought.
“We have go north on the P.C.H.,” she sniffled. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“Where’s this P.C.H.?” I asked her. She pointed at the road where we had parked. “Okay.” After checking the traffic, I drove north.
The big car gained speed smoothly as we drove along with the Pacific Ocean on the left side of the car. I could see large waves wash against the beaches below. Some people were swimming and surfboarding in the water. Others were lying on the sand or roller-skating on an asphalt walkway that ran in front of long rows of beach houses. A few just walked along the beach above the tide line. I was to learn that Californians were a different species. It was kind of like being in a foreign country where most everyone spoke English.
We drove for almost forty-five minutes before she pointed out a right turn, which was a narrow, blacktopped road that went up into some hills. The narrow blacktop twisted and turned through the hills. As we came around a curve, she pointed at large redwood gates in a high fieldstone wall. She reached over and pushed a button on a remote control clicker attached to the sun visor on my side of the car. The big gates swung slowly inward. I drove around the large circular brick driveway and stopped near the double front doors of her house.
It’s a mansion, I thought, as I helped her out of the car. She put her right arm around my neck for support as we walked inside. The front door had been unlocked. Not wise, I thought.
“Where is your bedroom?” I asked her, and she pointed down a long, wide hall. The hall ended at a large sunken room that had glass-paneled walls on the east and west sides. Sunlight flooded the room from the west side. The ceiling was two stories high. A set of stairs at the other end of the room led to a landing that ran across the second floor level. She pointed at the stairs. We climbed the stairs and went through a door in the middle of the landing.
The bedroom was huge. It covered the entire upper story. Straight ahead, there was a monster bed in front of a mirrored wall, with a walk-in closet on each side of it. As I walked her to the bed, I could see that the east side of the room was mostly wide glass panels. Large sliding glass doors opened onto a balcony. I set her on her bed.
“Where is your robe?” I asked her, and she pointed at the closet on the right. “Can you change by yourself?” I handed her a thick, white, terrycloth robe from the closet. She nodded her head.
The west wall of her bedroom had wide windows covered by drapes and a built-in vanity with a professional makeup mirror lit by florescent tubes on the sides and across the top. “Where’s your bathroom?”
She pointed to a door near the vanity. Tiled in pale yellow and accented with gold-colored fixtures and thick towels, the large bathroom had a big fancy marble tub, a separate shower, and a Bidet next to the commode. Don’t see many of those stateside, I told myself.
Three long skylights allowed the western sun to warm the room. Must be nice to be rich, I thought, and ran water in the tub. I adjusted the taps until the water was hot and filled the tub.
Back in the bedroom, I saw she had put on the robe. She sat on the side of the bed with her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as she cried.
“It’s okay, Ma’am,” I told her. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” She didn’t respond. “You are still in shock caused by a very traumatic experience,” I said. “Is there anyone you want me to call to come help you?” She shook her head.
“Okay. I want you to go into the bathroom and soak in the tub until you feel more relaxed. We have to keep you quiet, warm, and hydrated as you work through the shock. Do you understand?” She nodded her head. “Can you get into the tub by yourself?” Again, she nodded. I helped her off the bed, walked her to the bathroom, pointed her toward the tub, and closed the door.
Wendy Williams dropped her robe on the cool bathroom tiles and stepped into the tub. She slid down until the hot, soothing water was just under her chin, and placed an inflated headrest behind her neck. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Her body was still trembling. Shock, he said, she thought. Yes, I’m in fucking shock! She turned a control knob near her right hand and multiple pulsating jets of hot water messaged her bruised body. She let her mind drift and dozed in the big marble tub. He’s very gentle, she thought, my unlikely hero. A small smile came to her generous lips.
****
I walked over to a sitting area in front of the wide glass doors. The sliding-glass doors led to a balcony that overlooked a pool and a hot tub on the patio below. Beyond the patio, the steep hillside fell away in a sweeping vista of the L.A. Basin. It was quite a panorama! I bet this is a hell of a view at night, I told myself.
Water, I thought. Need water for the shock. I went back downstairs and searched for the kitchen. When I found the kitchen, I looked for a water container and a glass. There were many bottles of an expensive brand of sparkling water in the refrigerator. I took three of them and a glass upstairs to her bedroom. I set the water bottles and the glass on a bedside table. Then I went over and tapped on the bathroom door. “Are you all right in there, Ma’am?” I yelled through the door.
“Yesss!” she yelled back. She sounds a little stronger, I thought. Hell, I had seen hardened fighting men die from shock. These days, young soldiers died from shock from relatively minor wounds. It’s a generational thing. Older generations were just tougher. Soft living and political correctness will kill us all yet, I thought.
I walked out on the balcony. God, what a great view! I told myself. L.A. streets covered the basin bowl in a crisscross pattern and lapped up the surrounding hills. A light gray-blue haze hung over the city below. That must be the dreaded smog. I stood there and admired the view while she soaked in the tub.
Six months ago, I retired from the government job I had for over twenty-five years. They said I was too old to continue working as a field agent. And nobody saw me in a supervisory role, because I had become too much of a maverick. Hell, I didn’t see me in a supervisory role; so I retired and hit the road. Even then, I was suspicious of my former employers.
When I retired, they made me sign many official papers that all said the same thing: I would keep my mouth shut about my former job, or I would go to prison until I died. But that’s all a bunch of bull crap! I told myself. They would never let me stay alive long enough to go to prison. I could still talk in prison. My job in the super-secret government agency had been problem solving.
I was required to solve problems in a permanent manner. Now, I was a possible source of embarrassment and a living threat to the peace of mind of my former bosses. And they wouldn’t like that, because they hated loose ends–especially loose ends that threatened their status quo.
People in my job category aren’t supposed to live long enough to retire. Most die long before they get the ‘gold watch’ or become a potential problem. I am keenly aware that someone might soon be coming to solve me. After I retired, I kept moving across our great nation by train and by bus. I hate flying, and I detest driving. If I had to drive mile after mile, I would save my old agency a lot of trouble and kill myself.
Each month the government deposits a fat retirement check directly into my checking account. I have a bank debit card in my pocket that is good for $600.00 a day. I could withdraw that amount every day for a very long time. On top of that, I have hundreds of thousands of dollars put away in government treasuries, which automatically roll over every ten years. Except for brief vacations, there hadn’t been much time for me to spend my salary. I was financially secure. If I kept moving, I might remain physically secure. I heard the bathroom door open behind me.
She came into the bedroom wearing the terrycloth robe. She had washed her hair. It hung in dark damp red waves down her back. And she had scrubbed the makeup off her face. This was the first time I got a good look at her. She looked ten years younger without the makeup. Like a young girl–a big, beautiful young girl, I told myself.
Even barefoot, she was almost two inches taller than I was. She was a very impressive sight in her bathrobe. Healthy, deeply tanned cleavage showed under the top folds. But she still looked a little dazed. She still had a long way to go before she got back on her wheels.
“You should get right into your bed and stay warm,” I told her. She obediently walked to her bed and crawled under the covers. Leaning back against the big pillows, she was still in almost a sitting position. “Do you have any sleeping pills?” I asked her. She nodded and pointed toward the bathroom.
I went into her bathroom and returned with four sleeping pills. “Put out your hand,” I said. I pulled a chair over beside her bed and pulled the bed covers up under her chin. I sat next to the bed and poured a full glass of bottled water. She swallowed the pills and drank most of the water. Then she lay back against the pillows.
I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. “Close your eyes and breathe deeply through your nose. You’re in your own home and in your own bed, and you’re completely safe. I’m going to be right here all night to protect you. But you don’t need any protection because there no one is trying to hurt you. You need to stay warm, calm, and hydrated and get a good night’s sleep. I am holding your hand because physical contact helps with shock recovery.”
She squeezed my hand a little and, in a low voice, said, “Thank you for helping me.”
Tears flowed from her eyes, and she squeezed my hand harder. “He would have killed me. I told him I would give him all my money,” she sniffled, “and I told him I would give him my car, but he wanted more.”
She closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again. “He said he was going to … going to, to fuck me on the floor. That’s when you came along.” She blinked her eyes. More tears rolled down her face. “I don’t even know your name. What’s your name?” She squeezed my hand again.
“My name’s Joe.”
“Joe what?” she wanted to know. “What’s your last name?”
“No last name, just Joe.”
“Okay, Just Joe,” she said, and her lips turned up in a small smile. That was a good first sign. She was coming back from a real bad place. “Are you the Good Samarian or what?”
“No. You just needed help, and I was there.”
“Lucky for me, you saved my life,” she said, and looked at me with those big green eyes.
“Don’t make it more than it was. That guy was no killer. He was a rapist but he was no killer.” She stared hard at me.
“How could you know he wasn’t going to kill me, Joe? He scared the hell out of me!”
“I am sorry Ma’am, but I don’t know your name either. What is your name?” I asked her. In my former line of work, that’s a misdirection technique.
“My name is Wendy Williams. I am an actress,” she said. Her tone of voice indicated that I might be a little remiss in not knowing she was famous. Oh my, a real live movie star! I thought to myself. She is getting better. The old ego is coming back on line.
“Please call me Wendy,” she said. “And, please, don’t ever say ‘Ma’am’ to me again. You are old enough to be my father. And you didn’t answer my question. How could you know he wasn’t a killer?” Getting better fast, I thought.
“Well, Wendy, I used to have a job that allowed me to study killers. So I know something about them,” I tried to explain.
“You had a job studying killers?” she asked. “Who has a job studying killers …?” Interrupted by a large yawn, she put her other hand over her mouth, and then yawned again. “Aaaaaah,” she yawned.
Thank god, I thought. It’s beddy-bye time for you, baby. She closed her eyes tightly, then opened them again, and looked at me.
“We’re going to have a long talk about you tomorrow, Joe. Thank you.” She squeezed my hand again and closed her eyes. I sat there until she went into a deep sleep. Then I pushed her hand back under the covers.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I fixed myself a big meal of bacon and eggs. I love bacon and eggs. After washing up the dishes, I went around the house to check the locks on all the outside doors and windows. Then I went back upstairs to her bedroom.
Her bathroom smelled like girl. I took a leak and washed my hands. Then I stripped and took a fast shower and dried off. All my gear was in my old bag in a locker at the train station. I started to put my clothes back on when I remembered the other walk-in closet. I wrapped a towel around my middle and went to the other closet. When I opened the door, the light came on automatically.
There were many men’s clothes in the closet. And I saw another one of those terrycloth bathrobes. It was too big for me, but I could still use it. I would put my clothes back on again in the morning, but I didn’t want to sleep in them right after my shower.
I walked across Wendy’s bedroom and went out on the balcony again. Thousands and thousands of lights shone from the large bowl-shaped valley. That’s the City of Los Angeles shining down there, I told myself. Streets patterned in lights crisscrossed the huge valley. It was a hell of a view! I stood and admired the view for a long time before I turned and walked back into her bedroom and locked the balcony door.
I walked over to the bed and looked down at Wendy. Soft light from the bedside lamp fell across her face. Asleep, she looked young and innocent. Long black eyelashes curled against creamy cheeks dusted lightly with freckles. Her hair was long and thick and a deep dark-red color. It flowed in soft waves down to her breasts. I sat down in the chair next to the bed and fished her hand out from under the covers. I sat there and held her hand as she slept. And this time, I think it was more for my benefit than for hers. She was a very beautiful young woman.
Way out of your league, I told myself. There had been many women in my life, but not one long-term relationship. I had led a secret life, and no woman would abide that in a mate. I put her hand back under the covers. Then I lay down on the other side of her bed and went right to sleep. I could always just drop off, but I never slept real deep while working. The least little sound would awaken me instantly.
I awoke the next morning and went into the bathroom, took a leak, and washed my hands and face. I dressed in the same clothes I had worn yesterday and put the borrowed robe back in the closet. I sat down in the chair next to her bed and waited for her to wake up. I had had to learn how to be good at waiting. Waiting was a big part of my former occupation. Stalking and waiting are things I do best, I thought. I hadn’t seen her open her eyes.
“What are you thinking about so hard, Joe?” she asked me in a little girl’s sleepy voice.
“I was wondering what you wanted for breakfast, Wendy,” I told her. “You need to get some food in your stomach. How about I make you some bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee for breakfast?”
“Joe? How come I am starting to think you are a big liar?” She was giving me that close look again, and her big green eyes looked clear and bright. Almost back, I thought.
“How about some breakfast,” I asked her again. “You should eat something.
“Okay, Okay! Bring on the bacon and eggs. But no coffee for me–I’ll have orange juice.” I got up and went downstairs to cook.
Wendy Williams watched him walk out her bedroom door. Then she smiled to herself and started to stretch her long body. “Ouch!” she said loudly. Pain came from a dozen different places. She got up slowly and walked into her bathroom. She removed her robe and hung it on a big gold hook on the back of the bathroom door. Then she turned and stood naked in front of the large mirror over the vanity.
“Oh my God!” she said softly. Large black and blue bruises covered most of her body. Some had turned red and had yellowish tinges. In the past, she had spent a great deal of time and effort keeping her body ready for the cameras. This is a disaster! she told herself as she studied her reflection. She turned one way, and then another, and examined the damages to her main asset. Luckily, I’m not shooting a movie, she thought.
She ran water into a glass and swallowed four aspirin. The pain wasn’t that bad as long as she was standing still, but it hurt when she got in the shower. It’s a damn good thing I am not working! she thought again. She let the hot water run over the bruises. She gently soaped herself and stayed under the shower for a long time before she dried herself and returned to bed. As she piled some more large pillows behind her back, she considered her savior–her mysterious savior. Why is he being so evasive, she asked herself?
After I finished cooking her breakfast, I found a large bed tray in the pantry. I put her breakfast on the tray, along with another cup of coffee for me, and took it upstairs. She must have been in the bathroom while I was cooking. A pale pink lipstick was on her lips, and she had brushed her hair. Now she was sitting straight up in her bed with more large pillows behind her. I set the tray across her thighs, took my cup of coffee, and sat down in the chair beside her bed. She ate with a good appetite and some “yummies” thrown in between bites.