Lady Blues

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  She came back to earth and smiled, caressing my cheek with the back of her hand. “Oh, Gus. Always the defender. Of course, we just want her to be happy, right?”

  I laughed. “You sound like her mother.”

  Max got up and burrowed in the bunched-up spread at the foot of the bed.

  Camille slid back onto my chest, wrapping an arm around me. “I know. But I feel protective of her.”

  Thoughts of Siegfried flashed before me. I pictured his eyes filled with longing and adoration. “Someone else feels the same way.”

  She pulled back and looked at me. “Sig?”

  “Yeah. You may have noticed he’s…”

  She interrupted. “Bewitched, bothered...”

  I jumped right in, “…and bewildered.”

  She sighed. “It’s so romantic.”

  We lay together in silence. I stroked her hair and back, enjoying the closeness of the moment. “Sig wants to build his own place.”

  She bolted upright. Alarm flashed in her eyes. “What? He’s not leaving us, is he?”

  “Not really. He picked a spot in the field by the woods. You know where the trail starts on the hill?”

  She blew out a sigh. “Oh, good. He’d be right next door, then.”

  “Yup. It’d be nice and cozy for a couple of newlyweds.”

  Her eyes widened. “You think?”

  I tilted my head and smiled. “Maybe. I think the feelings are mutual.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. “I hope so.” She sighed and a dreamy expression washed over her face.

  I yawned and reached over to turn off the light. After a few moments, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  ***

  I woke before the alarm, with thoughts of the music man on my mind. After showering and dressing, I headed for the kitchen, intent on breakfasting quickly and heading to the college to prepare for my eight o’clock class.

  A stirring came from the kitchen and I heard a scuffling sound, as if a chair was being scraped along the linoleum.

  I secretly hoped to find Adelaide Pierce, our housekeeper, but I knew she wasn’t expected back until the weekend.

  Could it be Siegfried? Cooking breakfast for Lily?

  The sun hadn’t yet risen, but light from the opened refrigerator illuminated the room. The clock on the stove read five minutes past six. I glanced at the door to Mrs. Pierce’s bedroom.

  Still closed.

  My eyes swept the room until they locked on a little figure standing on the chair near the counter.

  “Marion?” I said.

  Dark curls bobbed. “I cook eggs.”

  I flipped on the overhead light and stared. Two-and-a-half-year-old Marion held a spatula over something in a large plastic bowl.

  I crept closer, and she repeated her words, beaming with pride. “I cook eggs.”

  A brand new egg carton lay on its side beside the bowl, empty. Inside the bowl were a dozen raw eggs, yolks swirling yellow as Marion stirred.

  “I guess you did, little munchkin,” I laughed.

  Shocked, I noticed most of the eggshells actually lay in the waste can. A few had dribbled onto the floor. Amazed she’d actually cracked the eggs open with few shells in the mix, I lifted her up and brought her to the sink. “Baby, you can’t play with raw eggs. Only Opa can do that.”

  She wiggled in my arms as I reached over to turn on the warm water. “I make soup.”

  “Soup?” I asked.

  She pointed toward the counter on the other side of the refrigerator. A stockpot sat on the shelf, with something scattered around it. I washed and dried her little hands, carrying her on my hip toward the stockpot.

  “I make soup.”

  I peered into the pot, noticing the containers on the shelf had been emptied of their dried goods. Inside the pot lay a mound of rice, granola, oatmeal, and peanuts. On top, placed directly in the center of the mess, sat a potato.

  “Soup, Opa.”

  A laugh snorted out my nose. I carried her into the great room and plopped onto the leather chair with her on my lap; my laughter overwhelmed me as I guffawed and gasped for air.

  Marion giggled and jumped up and down on my legs with her hands wrapped around my forefingers. “I make soup!”

  I hugged her to me and kissed her downy cheeks. “You sure did. Are you hungry, little one?”

  She nodded, eyes wide. “Uh huh.”

  I found a box of Cheerios, untouched by little hands. After adding milk and slicing bananas over two bowls, we munched together until the sun came up.

  Chapter Nine

  Classes went smoothly, even for a Monday. Most students arrived on time, with only a few kids straggling in late for my eight o’clock Opera class. With dark circles under their eyes, they muttered lame excuses en route to their seats in the back. These regular slackers, who could be counted on to party late the night before and show up halfway through class with ill-prepared homework and drooping eyelids, plopped into their seats and immediately dozed.

  Later in the day, Maddy chatted her way through lunch, expounding on her favorite topic: weddings. She and Joe hadn’t yet decided when or where, but they knew they would tie the knot in the next year or two.

  Since they already lived together, it seemed inconsequential to me. “Why don’t you guys just elope?” I said.

  “Elope?” she screeched. “You’ve gotta be kidding. I’ve been waiting my whole life for a big wedding and I’m sure as hell not gonna elope. My first husband, God rest his soul, was a skinflint. We got married at the town hall. By golly, I’m not doin’ that again. No way in hell.”

  Brow furrowed, she dragged the computer mouse around the pad and clicked it several times in succession, bristling at me. “Besides. If we eloped, I wouldn’t be able to wear this.”

  She spun her monitor so I could see. An anemic, pencil thin girl modeled a puffy, lacy dress.

  I tried not to raise my eyebrows or smirk. It looked gaudy to me, but then again, when I considered for whom it was intended…“Um. That’s beautiful, Maddy.”

  She spun the screen back, tapping at it with long orange fingernails painted to match her tangerine jumpsuit. Her silver charm bracelet jangled when she poked at the screen. “This one is only ten thousand. I’m putting it on my list.”

  This time I did raise an eyebrow. “How much?”

  She pouted. “Hey. If I wanna blow my own money on a dress, it’s up to me.”

  I stood and grabbed the CD I needed for the one o’clock class on American Composers. Today we would examine current day musicians, including a local genius I’d come to admire, Paul Oney Stuart. After attending an opera he composed, “The Sisters of Manzanar,” I’d been hooked.

  “Okay. You’re right, Maddy. It’s none of my business how you spend your money. Do whatever makes you happy.”

  She pursed her lips in pleasure and smoothed her short blond hair with one hand. “Thank you. I will,” she huffed.

  “See you after class.”

  ***

  At five past two, I returned to the office and grabbed my jacket from the coat rack. “Heading out, Maddy.”

  My secretary looked at me as if I had just pulled a live jellyfish from my pocket. “And where are you going so early? It’s only two o’clock.”

  “I promised to visit a nursing home patient.”

  Looking as if she didn’t believe me, she rummaged around in her huge purse for something. When she found it, she dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her wrists, filling the room with a strong floral scent.

  I stepped back and held my breath.

  “Nursing home? What nursing home?” she said.

  “Remember I played piano for Nahum’s service Sunday? It was at that new place, Bello Mondo Manor.”

  “What?”

  “Bello Mondo. It means, ‘beautiful world’ in Italian.”

  The printer beeped, calling for more paper. Maddy trotted toward it in her orange high heels, slit open a ream of paper with one long fingernail,
and loaded a sheaf into the drawer before prancing back to her desk. “I’ll bet you had to look that up,” she laughed. “You don’t speak Italian.”

  I shrugged into my jacket and grabbed my briefcase. “Hey, I had a year in college, because I needed it to study opera. I remember a little.”

  “Sure you do,” she said, still peeved at me. She settled back in her chair and tapped hard on the keyboard, muttering under her breath. “Elope. Huh. What a nincompoop you are, Gus.”

  “Okay.” I sidled toward the door. “Listen, Maddy, don’t stay too long. If things are quiet, just get out of here, okay?”

  Feeling a little guilty for deserting her, I waved and slipped into the hallway. I didn’t relax until I was out of her sight. Though only fifteen years my senior, she often acted like my mother instead of my loving, but intrusive, mother-in-law; and never like my obedient secretary.

  Fresh April air cooled my skin, and a warm breeze danced over the campus grounds, kicking up old leaves wedged in barberry bushes and swirling tall mounds of grass next to the marble steps. From my vantage point atop the ridge where the college sat, I could see a great deal of the greening Genesee Valley. Patches of woods and farms separated the rolling hills of new growth. I ached to take to the woodland paths for a brisk walk with Max. I knew my four-legged friend would adore the new scents of spring.

  Shaking my head in self-denial, I forced myself to concentrate, dodging students as I strode across the quad. I took the short cut and ducked beneath the wrought iron trellises covered with emerging ivy, heading toward the parking lot.

  I reached my SUV in five minutes, hopped inside, and headed up University Street toward Main. Waiting for the traffic to clear, I idled at the corner and stared at the remains of the tailor shop.

  Yellow tape circled the property, including the sidewalk fronting the burned shell. The fire had destroyed the second floor, and only a few blackened beams remained. The first floor windows stood cracked and shattered, as if surprised such an atrocity could have happened to them. Thin wisps of steam still spiraled from embers on the top floor. I shook my head, shocked at the damage. I hadn’t seen the place since it burned two days ago, and even then, we’d hurried Lily home while the fire department contained the blaze. I made a mental note to find out about insurance. If Lily and Thom decided to rebuild, they should get moving on it. Someone should have called their insurance company the day of the fire.

  I merged with the light flow of traffic, heading south. On a whim, I pulled into a parking spot in front of the Transit Insurance Company two blocks from the shop. I poked my head in the door and caught the eye of Bud Smelthoff, the owner, and the agent who held all my insurance policies.

  “Hey, Gus.”

  I nodded. “Hey, Bud. Quick question for you. Any chance you guys insured the Kims’ property?”

  He got up and took my hand, pumping it with vigor. Gray eyes bulged from his face. I wondered, for the millionth time, if he had an overactive thyroid.

  “Oh, yeah. We got it covered. Had the adjustment guys out yesterday. They took the pictures, got copies of the police report, the whole nine yards. I’ve been trying to get hold of Thom. You know what hospital he’s at?”

  I filled him in, and mentioned that Lily was staying with us. “If you need a signature or something, let me know.”

  “From the girl?” He looked skeptical.

  I grimaced. “She’s forty-two years old, Bud. She’s not a girl. And her name is Lily.”

  “Yeah. Okay. But she’s not on the policy. It’s in his name. Everything’s in Thom’s name.”

  “You mean he owns the business and building?”

  “Yup. Lock, stock, ‘n’ barrel. Besides, she doesn’t even speak English, ‘far as I can see. I never see her except when she’s working on that danged sewing machine. Never said ‘boo’ to me.”

  I tried to control myself. Bud wasn’t the most empathetic guy in town. “Okay. Well, listen. If we have to get a power of attorney going or something, I’ll let you know. He’s gonna be laid up for months with those burns. Right now, they’re keeping him heavily sedated. If they want to rebuild, she may have to take the reins.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Well, okay. If you say so. I’ll let you know if the insurance company wants to meet with him. Maybe they can see him at the hospital.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  I backed out the door, waved a curt goodbye, and slid behind the wheel. The whole thing seemed too complicated. If Thom owned the property, then Lily would be powerless to help unless he released ownership to her or signed a power of attorney. I couldn’t imagine their aunt would have turned everything over to Thom, when both siblings lived with her for all those years. Why didn’t she split it half and half?

  Had Thom grabbed both shares of the inheritance, leaving Lily completely dependent on him? I hated the thought. But, he’d certainly kept her isolated—especially from most people, including anyone who might enlighten her about her rights, and life in the USA.

  Is it a cultural thing? Are women second-class citizens in his household?

  I decided to ask Camille to talk to Lily when the time was right. Backing out of the parking spot, I headed for the nursing home.

  Chapter Ten

  When I arrived at Bello Mondo, I parked in the back of the lot and wound along the sidewalk to the entrance. A few lone patches of daffodil and tulip leaves poked through the soil on the berms, and isolated forsythia bushes and shrubs circled one spindly Bradford pear tree. The landscaper had positioned the flower patches in the strangest places, as if just thrown into the ground with no sense of artistry or design.

  At the end of one berm, a cluster of purple crocuses popped their heads up in wonder, as if speculating where their floral neighbors had gone. A large patch of nothing surrounded them. Weeds had already begun to sprout along the wet mulch. I wondered if they would pull them out by hand or spray them with some noxious substance.

  Once again, I contemplated the disparity of the grounds compared to the lush interior of the building. Who would invest in the rich décor, the marble floors, the lavish jewel of a chapel, and allow such horrendously boring landscaping?

  I pulled open the heavy front door and was met by a hushed quiet.

  A receptionist worked at the desk, tapping quietly on a slim laptop, her lacquered platinum hair perfectly coiffed in a tight chignon. “May I help you?”

  I approached the mannequin-woman with her practiced smile and carefully drawn makeup, as images from “The Stepford Wives” flickered across my mind’s eye. “I’m here to visit…uh…I don’t actually know his name. But the nurse called him ‘the music man’.”

  She looked at me blankly. “And your name is…”

  “Gus LeGarde.”

  When she spoke into the phone with her prim and polished smile, I felt cold, excluded from her clique.

  She frowned into the phone. “I have a Gus LeGarre here to see Mr. Smith.”

  “LeGarde,” I corrected.

  Her mouth twitched with brittle acknowledgement. “Fine. Head down to the nurses’ station, just past the chapel. They’ll take care of you.” She pointed with a bony finger.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  A plastic smile creased her pancake face. “Not a problem. And welcome to the Manor.”

  I headed for the hall.

  Mr. Smith? That’s the best they came up with for a man with no name? I’m surprised they didn’t dub him John Doe.

  I reached the nurses’ station, relieved to find Debbie, the stout RN I’d seen Nahum chatting with at the chapel, behind the desk.

  She flashed a pretty smile and hopped to her feet. “Professor LeGarde! It’s lovely to see you here.” She moved with grace, grabbed my arm, and led me along the hall, bubbling with enthusiasm. “We’ve been hoping you’d come. Our music man needs someone to talk to. He’s always spouting technical stuff we don’t understand, especially about something called an ‘interlude.’ He’s always humming and singing, an
d conducting a chorus of birds outside the window. We just thought maybe if someone understood him, perhaps they could help him remember, you know?”

  I stopped and looked at her, puzzled. The urgency of the request seemed odd, especially since he’d been in homes since 1944. I wondered if he’d studied jazz, and immediately thought of the famous interlude in Dizzy Gillepsie’s “A Night in Tunisia.”

  I turned to Debbie, who continued to lead me down the hallway. “Why now? Haven’t people been trying to help him for the past seventy years?”

  She blushed and chuckled. “Well, Professor. I wasn’t alive when he was first admitted into the system. And I suspect, neither were you. But something has changed. He’s on a new medicine that’s worked wonders for patients. It’s called Memorphyl. We’ve seen signs of improvement, you know? Enough to get the whole floor excited. It’s happening all over the state, spreading like wildfire. Family members with Alzheimer’s patients are clamoring for it. Finally, they’ve upped production, so now there’s a decent supply.”

  I followed Debbie along the marble-tiled hall. Tasteful etchings covered the walls, grouped by category. We passed collections of railways, birds, and antique seafaring vessels.

  She took my arm and pulled me down a side corridor, equally as plush as the previous one. Instead of the usual institutional drywall and paint, the Bello Mondo walls were covered in burgundy velvet wallpaper, and in this hall, every ten feet or so, lovely floral watercolors graced the walls.

  “Haven’t you heard about it? It was on the news a few weeks ago. They did a special on Sixty Minutes.”

  A faint memory tickled the back of my mind, but I hadn’t paid close attention. “I guess so,” I said. “I’ll bet it costs a pretty penny. How do the families afford it?”

  “It’s exorbitant, but so is every designer drug, you know? Medicare pays for most of it. They pushed it through the legislature last year. Professor LeGarde, don’t you watch the news?”

  The smile behind her eyes made me laugh. “Not enough, apparently.”