The Protocol: A Prescription to Die by John P. Goetz Read Free Book Online Page B

sugar tests, to make sure that diabetes was not creeping up from behind. There was a beauty salon on the first floor that the residents could use. Eat simply maintained a balance in her small “mad-money” account, and each time she used their services, the fee was automatically deducted. When it hit $10, they let him know and he simply deposited whatever was needed to get it to $50, the max allowed by the center.
    Bingo was two or three nights a week, and cost twenty-five cents.
    Movie nights were every Friday.
    Not a bad setup, really.
    For BLT, this was now home.
    The first week in the center was interesting for all involved. On her second day as a resident, her primary nurse, Joey, tried giving her a bath. That did not go well, and Eat, having learned of the story second-hand, wished he could have seen it unfold. It took some persuading, but Betty Lou finally calmed down, and her blood pressure returned to normal. The staff relented, and agreed that until she absolutely needed it, that bathing would be her responsibility, within reason. Her nurse would draw the bath, ensuring that the water was not too hot, and wait outside the door until she finished.
    “This is new for her and for us. We both have to learn our limits with one another,” her nurse, Joey, told Eat as he soothed the cheek that still had the red shadow of the palm and fingers of Betty Lou’s right hand.
    “She’ll be just fine.”
    Feisty was a very good adjective for her.
    Dedicated was a very good adjective for Joey.

Chapter 7
    Butch woke up each and every morning thankful that the sights he opened his eyes to were of his bedroom ceiling and not of a cellblock. It was almost noon. He was rarely able to sleep in this late, but today was Sunday, and he had worked ‘til 3:00 am.
    Each morning was like the rest. He woke thankful for the comforting, familiar surroundings. The trees outside of his window. The trophies on the bookshelf that his mother refused to put away even though he was thirty-three. The sounds of cooing mourning doves in the tall, white, paper birches outside of his window. He was thankful for the same familiar, comforting smells that defined his youth. His father’s pipe that billowed puffs of cherry vanilla smoke. His mother’s strong coffee, and her favorite K-Mart perfume. The nose-hair-curling scents of vinegar, garlic, and dill during his mother’s seasonal efforts to can her neighborhood-famous pickles. His father’s workshop that smelled of grease, diesel fuel, empty beer cans, and the same pipe smoke that permeated the house.
    He had come close to losing it all.
    Very close.
    He had come close to spending the next fifty years of his life in a ten-by-ten cinderblock cell at Leavenworth where he could only reminisce about the memories and smells of home. A prison where murderers, rapists, and traitors spent their days with other murderers, rapists, and traitors. Where they compared stories and bragged about their violent conquests. His windows, if he had any, would have been measured in inches and barred. His scenery would have been razor wire, gray painted cinderblock walls, electrical fences, and guards with guns. Big guns with big bullets. The smells would have been of piss, the sour aroma of body odor, and of stale cigarette smoke.
    His life had been put into a blender, and set to purée because some political consultant heard a story from an assistant, who heard it from a cameraman, who heard it from an embedded reporter, who was gunning for a Pulitzer. The consultant convinced the congressman that he could be a cause-celeb by championing the anti-war fervor. Re-election was certain if he played his cards right, and followed the consultant’s lead. The consultant planted the seed during a Sunday morning talk show; the talking head took the bait, and ran for a touchdown causing the story to go viral in a matter of two short days. The congressman feigned surprise and outrage. Butch instantly became a pawn in a game