Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

He turned the key behind him and walked up the ramp. What a rotten break. He stood for a minute letting the breeze from the gulf cool his hot face. What the heck had really happened? He knew guys who took stuff they said gave them crazy dreams. What had he taken? A soda and a candy bar. Dorothea had seemed real enough in there; out here she was nothing and nowhere. He was tired, that had to be it. He’d been concentrating on this crazy plan and blown his brains.

Simon got over the fence and back to the street. Funny. He’d been so scared and careful going in, now he didn’t give a darn what happened. He never wanted to go back to the place. He’d phone in tomorrow and say he was quitting.

Trudging back to the bus stop, Simon desperately wished he had his motorbike. He’d known he couldn’t bring it today and he’d left it at Volanda’s house.

Volanda. His heart sank. How was he going to tell her about this nutty Dorothea business? He couldn’t. She’d think he was bats and maybe he was. What made it worse was that the idea of going in there to paint after hours had been Volanda’s and it had seemed like such a good one.

At the corner he looked at his watch. He knew the buses ran till ten; thank goodness, here came one now. He boarded and sank into a seat. Volanda was working the late shift and he’d promised to stop in and tell her how it went. It went crazy, but how could he tell her that? Simon stared out at the dark streets as the bus drove through Newtown. The nursing home where Volanda worked, Senior Years, was only a few blocks from her home. Simon had gotten very familiar with Senior Years in the last few months because of Uncle Willie.

He got off the bus and walked the block to Senior Years. It was at the end of the street across from the Baptist church. There was a service and the organ was playing “Silent Night.” Less than a week till Christmas, Simon thought, dreading it.

He said to the woman at the desk, “Hi, Mrs. Bowles.”

“Hello, Si. She’s with your uncle.”

“How is he?”

“Not good, honey.”

The waiting room was dim and small and smelled of medicine. Mrs. Bowles took off her glasses and stood up.

“I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

She went through some folding doors and Simon sat staring at the wall. Uncle Willie, whom he loved, was “not good.” Of course, Uncle Willie hadn’t been good in quite a while, but as Simon’s mother would say, “He’s darn good for eighty-two.” But Mrs. Bowles had sounded different just now.

The folding doors reopened and Volanda came out. She was a year older than Simon, pretty and smart, and he felt lucky that she liked him. She wore the blue and white pantsuit of the nurse’s aide and looked like a million in it. Her hair was in neat cornrows, her brown eyes alert. She beckoned to him.

“I want coffee.”

They went down the hall to where the bright lights of the cafeteria and the smell of coffee were a little more cheering. Volanda headed for a big urn, looking back at Simon, her face eager and expectant. She said, “So how’d it go?”

“Sit down, babe. I’ll bring it. You want a doughnut?”

“No thanks.”

Simon carried two cups of coffee to the table. There was a scattering of other people and some of them nodded to him. Volanda leaned forward, chin in hands.

“So tell me.”

“I forgot your cream.”

“The heck with the cream. Si, tell me.”

“Well, it worked and it didn’t.” Simon reached for the sugar dispenser. “I got in okay and got up to the room, but I was real nervous and I don’t want to go back.”

“What?” Her disappointment was instant.

He spoke very rapidly. “I kept worrying the whole time about what if I got caught. Besides, the light wasn’t great.”

“Si—” Volanda looked at him intently. “—were you seen? Is that it?”

He shook his head. At least he could say truthfully, “I swear, not one living person saw me.”

“Then why?”

“It’s too risky, Voley, and the basement door is going to be sealed up anyway. I’m not going back there ever again!” He stirred his coffee, looking down at it.

Volanda sat still for a few seconds, then pushed her cup away. “I guess it was a dumb idea.”

“It wasn’t, it wasn’t!” He felt awful. “It was a great idea and you were a genius to think of it.” He touched her hand. “It was you who told me to go work there in the first place, remember? And I love it. But I need to make better money.” A newspaper lay on the chair beside him and Simon picked it up. “There’s tons of places pay better than that museum.”

Volanda pulled her coffee back and began to sip it. Simon felt worse than ever. “Mrs. Bowles said Uncle Willie is bad,” he said.

“He is.”

“Can I see him?”

“Finish your coffee first.” She looked out the window at the dark street. “Funny. I got the idea from him.”

“From who? What idea?” Simon was reading an ad for help at a Waffle House.

“The idea for you to work at the museum. I never told you, did I?”

“I guess not.” He was intent on the ad. The place was near where he lived.

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

“About what?” And it was open all night. He’d call as soon as he got home.

“Uncle Willie.”