Meatloaf Night At The Looming Lighthouse
By Michael J. McMullin
Sonny Callahan had already suspected the place would be depressing, but when he saw the splintered wooden sign after pulling onto the long gravel drive, his suspicions were all but confirmed.
Looming Lighthouse Assisted Living
“Our Light Still Shines Bright!”
Monticello, Indiana
Est. 1923
Contrary to its sunny message, the sign was weathered and faded, and probably hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in as many years as some of the home’s residents had been alive.
He had taken the caregiver job because he figured it would allow him to study on someone else’s dime for a change. Reading in a room with some comatose old-timer would be just as well as the stuffy college library, and at fifteen bucks an hour he could start buying real food at the campus grocery, instead of cardboard instant noodles and soon-to-be-expired cans from the clearance shelf. Of course, it would only be a drop in the bucket toward his outrageous Purdue loans, which he might be able to pay off by the time his own family dumped him in a place like Looming Lighthouse.
He parked his rusted black Honda in one of the reserved employee spots right outside the main entrance to the facility, which was modeled after a seaside resort – wood siding, white and blue paint, big windows – like something you’d see in Martha’s Vineyard, but long-abandoned after some catastrophic hurricane hit years before. As the sign promised, the home’s namesake lighthouse loomed over Lake Shafer’s cobalt-blue waters, but it certainly broke its promise of still shining bright. The lantern room that sat atop the gallery was completely dark and devoid of any guiding light.
He glanced at his self-winding Seiko wristwatch, which had once belonged to his father and his father’s father before that. He was an hour late and had the watch to thank for it. The night before, Callahan had wound the alarm for eight the following morning, and when the time came, it emitted its shrill egg timer buzz just like…well, like clockwork. But there was a small problem: his reliable Callahan Irish Luck also kicked in like cosmic clockwork and he realized he had forgotten to spring the watch forward an hour for daylight saving time.
He grabbed his backpack and hurried inside to the reception area, where he was greeted by a woman who had clearly worked there for far too long. The photo ID hanging around her neck was that of a lively, smiling employee. The person wearing the ID was a different story. She had a perpetual frown that she apparently wore so much that wrinkles grew from its corners like weeds. Her face was covered in heavy makeup that tried unsuccessfully to hide the bags under her eyes. Chewed-to-the-quick fingertips that rifled through the many files and reports on her desk were yellowed from years of chain smoking.
“Can I help you?” she asked without looking up from her paperwork.
“I’m here to see the administrator, Mr. Stewart. I’m starting as a caregiver today.”
“Dweeb,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry?”
“Not you. Hold on.” She picked up her desk phone and hit one of its preset buttons. “Mr. Stewart? One of your new caregivers is at the front desk.”
“Regina, I’m still waiting for this week’s activity reports,” Callahan overheard from the receiver.
“Almost done, Mr. Stewart,” she said in her most polite “screw you” voice.
“This is why we have deadlines, Regina. Moving forward, please make sure you meet them.”
“Run,” she mouthed to Callahan. “Yes, Mr. Stewart,” she said into the phone.
“Please send in the new hire.”
The receptionist hung up the phone and looked wide-eyed at Callahan. “Mr. Stewart will see you now. He’s in the office at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you,” said Callahan.
“If you wanna thank me, convince the boss to finally send me on that paid vacation he’s been promising.” She rolled her eyes. “God knows I could go for a Piña Colada on a beach somewhere. Anywhere.”
Callahan smirked. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”
#
Everything about the administrator was dull, and after taking in the office, Callahan quickly deduced that the job was all the man had in his life. There were no family photos on the walls, no fishing poles or golf clubs in the corner, nothing to indicate any hobby or pastime. Just a few framed diplomas and certificates on the drab white walls, a chipped and dented wooden desk covered in tedious reports, and the official portrait of the governor, which hung on the wall and watched over Stewart approvingly while he sat in his rickety office chair. Two faded wingback chairs were positioned in front of the desk, and Stewart pointed to the one on Callahan’s left.
“You must be Callahan. Have a seat,” Stewart commanded.
Callahan, whose own father never missed an opportunity to remind him that he wasn’t called Sonny ‘cause he was bright, sat in the chair to his right instead.
The administrator did not seem amused. He began to scratch at his mostly bald head, and judging by the cluster of small scabs that peppered his scalp, it was something he must have done quite frequently.
“I’ll be brief, as I have many important matters that require my attention. Overseeing one of the Hoosier State’s oldest and most respected public assisted living facilities is no small feat,” he said.
Callahan didn’t say anything.
“We have over one hundred residents in this facility, all with very different needs and personalities. We are not here to save lives, so much as we are here to provide the highest quality of life as our elders fulfill the last of their golden years.
“You will see unpleasant sights. You will smell unpleasant smells. It may be just as hard, if not harder, than caring for small children. Residents in this facility are here because they no longer have the physical or mental capabilities to care for themselves. Your job as caregiver is to help keep them as comfortable as possible, alert medical staff of any emergencies, and to treat them all with dignity and respect.
“Do you understand my expectations of you?” Stewart asked.
“I do,” Callahan said with hesitation, like some teenaged groom’s vow at a shotgun wedding.
“We’ll see if that’s true, Callahan.” Stewart bridged his fingers and eyed him up and down for a moment. “Do you know how many caregivers this facility has gone through in just the past two years?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, sir,” he replied.
“Dozens. Probably more. All college kids like you. Most of them didn’t even make it through their first shift. They just left and never came back. I imagine they didn’t much care for handling bedpans or listening to older people repeat the same stories over and over again. Do you think you’ll have any issues like that?”
“No, sir.”
“Again, we’ll see if that’s true. If it is, I think you’ll find this to be a gratifying experience. We’re a fun group here, Callahan,” he droned.
It was in that moment that Callahan figured, with his pathetic combover and flooded suit pants, that Stewart was the type of boss who asked you to stay late and organize his files at four o’ clock on Thanksgiving, write you up for tardiness during a blizzard, and deny your personal day to attend a funeral. In other words, the embodiment of a soulless bureaucrat.
“Well, let’s introduce you to the residents and staff.” Stewart stood up from his desk. “Oh, and Callahan,” he said. “Please don’t be late again.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Stewart,” Callahan droned back—his own brand of screw you.
#
Callahan smelled death as he walked the halls with the administrator and a resident nurse. It was faint and nearly masked by bleach and other chemicals, but it still clung to the air like a haze in a smoker’s house even after a fresh coat of paint. Some smells never come out, no matter how much you spray and scrub.
They were outside one of the resident’s rooms when a gruff voice called out and interrupted Stewart mid-sentence.
“Is that you, pencil neck? Where’s my meatloaf?”
“That’s not until six, Mr. Healy,” Stewart groaned. His face began to redden.
“You got an answer for everything, don’t you?” the voice replied.
Callahan noticed that the administrator’s face grew even more flushed as his hand instinctively scratched at the scabs on his scalp. “Mr. Healy, I’d like you to meet your new caregiver,” he said. “Come,” he beckoned Callahan, as one would a well-trained dog.
When they entered, Callahan saw that the source of Stewart’s annoyance was an old man in a hospital bed who had slicked-back, white hair and a thin gray mustache. Next to him, an assortment of prescription bottles littered a night table. And unlike Stewart’s bare-bones office, the old man’s room was furnished with relics, knickknacks, and antiques he’d amassed over the course of his life before he reached the prescription pill purgatory of Looming Lighthouse.
His shelves were covered with jewelry; school rings, wristwatches, medallions, and bracelets. He had football and baseball trophies, transistor radios, sunglasses, baseball cards, and concert ticket stubs. Stacks of old newspapers and true crime magazines were piled on an old wheelchair in a corner.
Oddly enough, the one thing his quarters did have in common with Stewart’s was that he did not seem to have any family photographs. No pictures of his wife on their wedding day. No children or grandchildren smiling from his lap. No fishing trips with his drinking buddies. Not even a picture of himself.
“Don’t even think about stealing anything,” Healy barked to Callahan as he browsed all the possessions.
“Mr. Healy,” announced Stewart. “This is Sonny Callahan. He’ll be taking care of you starting today.”
“That’s Detective Healy to you,” the old man snarled, and pointed to the framed gold star hanging above his bed. “You know, Stewart, you remind me of the perverts I used to bust in the adult bookstores on Wabash Avenue back in Chicago. They were all bald creeps, too.”
Callahan bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. The blood rushed back to Stewart’s face and his hand almost returned to tending the small rose garden on his head.
“Yes. Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. I have other important matters that require my attention. Nurse, please review Mr. Healy’s medication schedule with the new caregiver.” He darted down the hallway before Healy could hurl another insult. The wooden soles of his dress shoes clacked loudly on the tile like horse hooves on cobblestone.
#
“Mr. Healy has a history of cerebrovascular accidents,” the nurse explained.
Callahan nodded slowly; his thumb and index finger pensively pinched his chin.
“Strokes,” she said.
His academic façade collapsed.
“Oh. Gotcha,” he replied.
“Mr. Healy must be administered one Pradaxa pill every evening at five,” she explained. “The bottle is next to his bed and is clearly labeled. He must not miss a dose. Missing just one can greatly increase blood clotting and contribute to another cerebro…another stroke.”
“No problem.” He raised his wrist and twisted the alarm crown on his watch to 5:00 PM.
“Hit the call button on the bed if you need any assistance and someone will come right away.” With that, the nurse took one last glance at Callahan, rolled her eyes, and left.
Callahan stood awkwardly in the doorway.
“Nice room,” he said.
“This place is a dump, and Stewart is a little troll, but they have the best damned meatloaf you’ll ever taste. The lady in the kitchen uses a recipe that her family has passed down since the Great Depression.”
“You were a cop?” Callahan asked.
“I was lots of things. But yes, I was a cop and I still am. Some jobs you do for life, so I’ll be asking the questions here.”
“Fair enough. I’m on the clock now either way.”
“You a college boy?” Healy asked.
“Yeah. English major down at Purdue.”
“What the hell you gonna do with an English degree? Work at McDonald’s?” he laughed. “Everyone already talks English in this country. What’s the skill?”
“Good one. You sound like my father.”
“Forget that studying crap,” Healy snapped. “You know how many dead college boys I seen over the years?”
“I suppose you’re going to say a lot?” He sat down in a guest chair and pulled out a copy of Twelfth Night from his backpack; he had only two days left to study for his British Lit midterm.
“Damn right ‘a lot.’ Quite a lot killed by just one guy, too,” he said. “You ever hear of the Buried Secrets Killer?”
“I think so. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” He vaguely remembered his parents watching the news reports when he was a kid.
“Yeah, he’d really like a pretty college boy like you. Especially in the seventies and eighties, when people were disappearing all the time. He killed at least twenty, probably more. He would kidnap them, make them drain their bank accounts, and steal their identities after shooting and burying them. Very hard man to track.”
Callahan looked up from his book. “So, whatever happened to him?”
“Dead and buried.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I buried him. Him and all the money he swiped from his victims. A couple hundred thousand, if I remember right. It was supposed to be part of my retirement plan, but after my stroke took the use of my legs and they figured out I had no next of kin, I was dumped in here. Had no power of attorney, so I became a ward of the state. Can you believe that? I was law enforcement and the law ended up screwing me.”
“If you know where the money is, why not just bribe your way out of here?”
Healy grinned; his dentures were filmy and coffee-stained. “That’s a hell of an idea, kid. You got any wheels?”
“Nice try, old man. You know, Stewart said the folks in here weren’t too sharp anymore, but I think you’re sharp as a tack with this tall tale.”
“Open that, if you don’t believe me.” Healy nodded at a dusty White Owl cigar box on a shelf across the room.
Callahan rolled his eyes, set down his book, and walked over to the box. Except for some loose change and a couple of funeral prayer cards, the box was empty. He shook his head and laughed at his own gullibility.
“I think it’s time for your nap,” he said.
“You’re not too bright, are you son? Lift the panel.”
Callahan inspected the container more closely, and noticed a small indentation where the wooden bottom met the back of the box. He stuck his fingernail in the gap and pried it open. Beneath the thin balsa wood, there was a stack of bills secured with a white band that read $10,000. They were all older hundreds, series 1977, to be exact.
“Whoa,” he muttered.
“Bust me out of here. We’ll split the money fifty-fifty. I don’t need it all, don’t have much time left in me anyhow. I don’t want to spend my last days gawking at Stewart’s bald head.”
“Sure, an old man goes missing under my watch on my first day. I don’t think I’ll get to enjoy any of the cash from my prison cell.”
“I know every inch of this place. Where everyone’s stationed and when. I’ve had a lot of time to case this joint. They don’t even have cameras.”
“That covers you getting out; doesn’t do much for me, the last person to see you alive.”
“So, when you come back, go to the little boy’s room for a tinkle and say that when you got back to my room, I was gone. Stewart’s been wanting me to croak since he met me anyways. Trust me, he won’t go looking too hard into my disappearance. What would that do to his immaculate reputation? And, like you said, it’s your first day.”
Healy kept chipping away at Callahan’s indecisiveness, a real devil on his shoulder.
“You’ll probably get fired, but I think a hundred grand is a pretty good severance package for a college boy.”
“Why don’t you give me a map or something, and I’ll bring the money back to you?”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday, youngblood?” The old man scowled. “Besides, the map is right here.” He pointed an arthritic finger to his temple.
Callahan processed all this as quickly as he could. It was insane, but why would Healy show him the ten grand if he was lying about the rest of the cash? And only a fool would turn their back on this kind of windfall when they were buried in debt, right? It wouldn’t even be stealing; it would be a gift. What would be the crime? Senior smuggling? Theft of government-owned property (said property being Ward of the State Healy)?
“Where we headed?” he finally asked.
“An abandoned steelyard in Gary,” said Healy. “After about an hour and a half drive, you’ll be the richest English major on campus.”
“I suppose you won’t mind if I take this stack?” he asked. “Call it insurance, in case you’re wasting my time?”
“You drive a hard bargain, kid. Go ahead. Take it.”
Callahan tucked the bills into his backpack and zipped it back up. That’s a lot of ramen noodles, he thought. “When do we leave?”
“Soon,” he said. “Go get your car and park it in the back.”
#
Callahan helped Healy into his wheelchair and carted him into the hallway.
“Wait a minute,” said Callahan, and disappeared back into the room. A moment later he returned with the bottle of Pradaxa pills. “Can’t forget these.”
“Fine,” Healy said. “Now let’s get moving.”
On the old man’s cue, Callahan quickly wheeled him towards the rear service entrance. According to Healy, there were no deliveries in the late afternoon, so it would be all clear. Turned out the old cop wasn’t lying. The halls were empty; not a nurse, orderly, or certain pesky administrator in sight. Callahan noted the noises issuing from each resident’s room as they rolled past; the hiss of ventilators, the quiet weeping of residents, Matlock and Diagnosis: Murder blaring from gravely television speakers.
As if he could read Callahan’s mind, Healy spoke.
“Depressing, ain’t it?” he asked. “But it’s where we all end up if we let it happen.”
Callahan stayed silent and kept pushing as they approached the service entrance at the end of the corridor. Healy’s plan had gone off without a hitch and Callahan began to feel excitement as he thought of the big payday that waited on the other side of the door. But when he opened the door, it wasn’t his payday that was waiting for him.
It was Regina from the front desk.
She was puffing away at a Virginia Slim, which would soon join the other lipstick-coated butts piled on the ground next to her.
“Uh, we’re just getting some fresh air,” Callahan said, apparently more flustered than he intended.
“I couldn’t give a prickly rat’s behind what you’re really up to.” She dropped her cigarette and ground it out with the tip of her shoe. “Stewart don’t pay me enough to be security around here, too. That cheapskate treats ten dollars an hour like it’s a hundred. I gave my whole life to this place, and I can barely make rent.” Callahan and Healy just stared at Regina and dared not interrupt. “You boys didn’t see me neither,” she rasped. And with that she marched inside, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind her.
“You really have this place scoped out, detective,” Callahan whispered.
“Don’t worry about her,” Healy snapped. “She’s dead already, just don’t know it yet.”
Callahan looked back at the closed door. “How long has she been here?” he asked.
“Longer than you been alive. But she ain’t going anywhere, like you. Funniest part is, she’s got a degree, and probably a fancy English one from Purdue, to boot.” Healy snorted at his own wit.
Callahan glared. “Why didn’t you just ask her to go on your little heist? Sounds like she’s ready to retire early. You’d make a cute couple.”
“Not my type,” he grunted. “Keep moving, we’re almost home free…"
