Ruins of the Mind

by Jason Stadtlander

  Barely a minute later, a woman using a walker stepped through the door. It was Edna Peirce, who was ninety-four years old and one of the few people Sarah considered a close friend. Edna suffered from severe arthritis that had twisted her up like a pretzel, and it was hard not to feel sorry for her. She was a kind soul, very outspoken, and she always stuck up for anyone she felt was in the right.

  “And just what did that old codger want?” she demanded.

  Sarah chuckled. “That ‘old codger,’ as you called him, is nearly twenty years younger than you.”

  Edna tsked. “Oh please—that man’s forty years older than me in attitude alone.”

  They both laughed. Edna was right, of course.

  “Phillips was complaining about his shower again,” Sarah said, moaning.

  “And? Did you do as I told you and give him a piece of your mind?”

  “If I did that, I wouldn’t have my job very long. I’m not the one paying for his care—he is,” Sarah reminded her.

  “That’s the problem with you young ladies these days. You let people like that walk all over you. To hell with being politically correct. Someone needs to put people like him in their place.”

  “I suppose you’re the person to do just that?”

  The old woman smiled. “I just might be. What’s he going to do—beat up an old woman? Well, you behave yourself young lady. And mind my words. Don’t be letting people like him walk all over you. I’m heading to bed.”

  “Thank you, Edna. Have a good night,” Sarah said.

  As was her habit, Edna tapped her walker on the floor and headed out. “Good night, sweetie.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Mr. Legna walked through the door. “Call me Henry,” he stated in a personable tone. He wore a pair of very clean but seasoned overalls, blue denim with fifteen pockets that were completely filled—a carpenter’s pencil here, a tape measure there and a pad of paper and a small hammer, among other assorted items. He looked like a well-groomed, walking and talking toolbox.

  Sarah escorted him on a tour of the facility, showing him all three floors and the hospice wing. She introduced him to the nursing staff and the orderlies. The head nurse, Margaretta McLeese, a heavyset Irish woman in her fifties with a propensity for laughter, was overjoyed to meet him.

  “Mr. Legna, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. I am so happy we have someone to help us out again. I was beginning to think we might have to invest in a new building before we found someone who could repair this old place.”

  Henry laughed warmly. “It’s not in that bad of shape. Nothing that some tender loving care can’t fix. I just hope I can take care of your building as well as you seem to take care of the patients. And please, ma’am, call me Henry.”

  A wide smile broke across Margaretta’s face. “Oh, I like this lad, Sarah. You hold on to him, or else I will,” she said playfully in her strong Irish accent. Margaretta laughed, and her large bosom bounced gently under her long, flowing red hair. “Very well, Henry. And you can call me Maggie.”

  Sarah continued the tour by showing Henry the arboretum, basement, boiler room and the toolshed, which was about the size of a four-car garage. Originally a large farmhouse, the building itself was over one hundred years old and had been expanded many times over the years.

  “So, where should I get started?” Henry inquired when they returned to her office.

  “Well, I wrote up this list.” Sarah handed it to him. “You can pretty much take it on as you see fit. I might as well warn you—you’ll have your work cut out for you for at least the next few weeks.”

  He glanced at the list. “Very good, ma’am. I’ll get started right away.”

  “Oh, and one more thing, Henry. Any repair materials you need for the facility, feel free to purchase them and expense them out as long as they aren’t too pricey. I’ll get you a company card soon.”

  “Will do,” he said, and then he turned and left the office.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Sarah stopped in to check on Henry. He had already repaired the faucet near the gazebo, mended the wall in the main hall that one of the orderlies had hit with a laundry cart and fixed the light in the laundry room. She found him on the back porch laying two bricks that had been knocked loose the winter before.

  “Goodness—you’ve been busy!” Sarah said as she walked up to check out his work.

  Without looking up, he responded, “Lot to get done. I believe in attacking things head-on and making sure that I do the best job possible.”

  Night and day difference between him and the other handymen, Sarah thought. “Have you met any of the residents?” she asked.

  Henry paused and looked up at Sarah, searching his mind for names of the residents. “I met Harold Yoder—nice man. You can really see the Dutch in his personality and mannerisms. A quiet fellow.”

  “Yes, and he is a very kind man. He used to help out a lot around here, tending to different projects, until he suffered a stroke.”

  “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. How bad was it? It looks like he has a difficult time with that left side.”

  “He lost most of the function in his left side. It affects his stride when walking. He suffers from paralysis on the left side of his face, too. But, as you can see, it doesn’t hold him back much.” Sarah smiled.

  “True. I also met Mrs. Peirce.” Henry paused and chuckled. “She spent a good ten minutes studying me from afar before finally approaching me.” Henry continued his work on the steps and said, “I like her a lot. She has an opinion about everything, but for the most part, her opinions are solid.”

  Sarah added, “If it weren’t for Edna Peirce, I actually wouldn’t have a job. She’s a good friend of my grandmother’s. They’ve known each other for forty years now, I guess. Edna told the board that they should consider me for the job. They hired me, and I’ve been here ever since.”

  Henry pictured Edna Peirce in his mind and smiled. “She’s an old soul.”

  “Yes she is. Quite young at heart, though.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Henry murmured.

  “Well, I don’t want to disturb you. I’ll let you carry on with your work.”

  “You’re never disturbing me, ma’am. It’s nice to have the company while I work.”

  “Please—call me Sarah. Why don’t you join Maggie and me for lunch in an hour?” she suggested.

  Henry consulted his pocket watch, which hung from a golden chain within his kangaroo-like overalls. “I think I’ll be ready for a break about then—yes, that would be nice.”

  At lunch, Sarah and Maggie told Henry stories about their experiences with the residents at Brockman House. Maggie went on about the people she felt Henry should be careful around. “Definitely watch Mr. Phillips. He has a side to him that bites like a snake, that one.” From the look in her feisty Irish eyes, Maggie clearly meant what she said.

  “I met Mr. Phillips. He strikes me as a particularly tough customer. I’ll be working on his shower in the morning because I want to get the light out front fixed this afternoon,” Henry responded.

  “Oh my, that will be nice. It’s been darker than a coal miner’s worst nightmare out there for far too long,” Maggie jested.

  Sarah listened to Henry and Maggie talk for a bit and noticed how strange it was that Henry fit in so naturally with the team. It was comforting, however. Sarah was pleased that she had finally found someone who fit really well in their environment; she was also a bit surprised that she felt at ease so quickly around Henry.

  THE AFTERNOON SUN was waning as Sarah stepped out onto the porch. A warm glow emanated from the new gas lantern attached to the pole several feet from the front porch steps. Henry knelt beside it, filling dirt into a hole.

  The gas lamp was not ornate, but it was much more decorative than the gaslight that had been there before. The lantern was cylindrical, composed of weathered brass with sculpted corners bending upward and a cut-crystal look to the curved panes. In the center of each pane was a small green glass bead about an inc
h in diameter. The chimney to the lantern was capped in a point that resembled the top peaks near the panes of glass.

  Sarah liked it. “My goodness, Henry, where did you get that lamp?”

  “A friend of mine restores old gas lamps. He had this in his basement,” Henry said.

  Sarah wasn’t exactly pleased. “Henry, you really should have checked with me before getting it from him. We don’t really have money allocated for this type of repair.”

  “Oh, there’s no charge, ma’am. He said he wanted us to have it. I gave him the old one in return.”

  She smiled. “Well, I suppose you can’t beat that price then, can you?”

  “Not at all. I’m sorry about having to replace the entire lamp. There was corrosion in the gas line, so I had to dig it up all the way back to here and replace the line.” He pointed to a spot about a foot from the lamppost where the trench ended.

  Henry continued. “My friend told me he has two more. I was thinking it might add warmth if we placed a few more around the front. Perhaps one over there near the end of the walk and another over there near the benches—I would have to run gas lines for both. What are your thoughts?”

  “It’s a wonderful idea. But let me talk to the board first and find out if we can spare the expense for the lines and the gas.”

  “That’s great. I’ll finish up my work and clean up.”

  THAT EVENING, EDNA stopped by Sarah’s office. “Miss Tradaul, did you see the new gas lamp out front?” Edna asked with obvious enthusiasm.

  “Yes, I did. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely! It looks exactly like a lamp my father had outside his office building when I was a girl. Where on earth did you find it?”

  “Actually, Henry found it. He said a friend of his restores old lamps, that it was from his collection,” Sarah replied.

  Edna was enthusiastic. “I’ll tell you something. I really like that boy. He’s a very nice young man and does such a fine job. I’ve seen several of his repairs. He does good work, Sarah.”

  “Yes, I’m very pleased with his work so far.”

  “Hold on to him, Sarah. We can’t afford to lose him.” The old woman laughed, nodding emphatically to herself.

  “I’ll do my best,” Sarah said, smiling reassuringly.

  “Good. You do that. Good night dear.” Edna made the usual double tap with her walker on the floor and stepped out.

  Sarah looked in her direction for a moment as Edna navigated in baby steps out of the office and around the corner. This was the tough part about working at Brockman—watching good people die slowly, losing their physical abilities and mental sharpness which prevented them from living the lives they had known for so long.

  Edna had taught piano for forty-three years. In recent years, however, her arthritis had grown so severe that she could no longer move her fingers over the keyboard. Sarah could still hear Edna in her mind playing piano for her and her mother when she was young. Edna’s fingers had flown across the keyboard then, playing difficult, beautiful songs. Now Edna sometimes seemed as if she were waiting for her life to end, alive but no longer vibrant.

  As Sarah turned off the lights in the office that evening, she was caught off guard by a strange glow on the carpet behind the front door. Her heart skipped until she realized that the green dot in the pane of the gas lamp was casting an oblong shape through the window of the door onto the carpet. It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t place it.

  Sarah looked around the main foyer. A sitting room to the right contained a baby grand piano, an old piano Edna had donated to the house. There were bookcases running the length of two walls, and a fireplace that rarely burned was on the remaining third wall. The room looked empty, cold and unused.

  Sarah’s feeling of discontent with the space faded at once when she opened the large oak front door and felt the warmth of the gas lamp. It was astonishing how bright the front now seemed in the dark night. Suddenly, she heard a creaking sound to her left. Sarah turned and was surprised to see Edna sitting in one of the rockers on the porch about ten feet away, her lap covered with one of her knitted throws.

  The old woman smiled warmly. “Sorry dear, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just love the new light here out front. I had to come and sit for a bit and enjoy the night. Do you hear it?”

  “Hear what? The lamp?”

  “No, sweetie. The night. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Sarah listened. She heard crickets in the distance, wind blowing through the trees and a very faint hiss coming from the lamp.

  Edna was right. “Yes, it is beautiful.”

  “Not a cloud in the sky. It’s truly alive tonight, isn’t it?”

  Sarah looked up. Despite the light from the lamp, she could see an incredible number of stars in the sky.

  “It certainly is lovely,” she said and turned to leave.

  “Have a good evening. Kiss that little girl of yours for me.”

  “I will. Good night, Edna.”

  Sarah walked over to her car, which was parked in the lot facing the front porch. Looking back, she couldn’t quite make out Edna’s face, but she was fairly certain the old woman’s eyes were closed. Basking in the light from the lamp, Edna looked twenty years younger.

  AT 7:35 A.M., Sarah made her way up the steps of Brockman House. When she reached the second step, Sarah stopped abruptly, recognizing a familiar piano composition she didn’t typically hear around Brockman House. She made her way up the rest of the steps when the title of it suddenly came to her: Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2—being played on the piano in the sitting room.

  Sarah opened the front door and was overcome by the beautiful music. She turned the corner into the sitting room and saw Edna’s walker placed beside the piano bench. Edna sat poised at the piano, her gnarled, arthritic fingers moving across the keys with fluid grace. Her eyes were closed, and tears rolled down her weathered but fair features. She was swaying as if she heard strings accompanying her, her feet pressing the pedals in perfect sync with her hands as they navigated the middle of the first movement.

  Edna reached a section where she began rapidly banging the upper octaves. Her body now pranced in an up-and-down rhythm as she bounced back and forth from the middle of the piano. She struck one last chord while holding down the sustaining pedal and then lifted her hands off the keyboard. She allowed that last chord to fade out, song incomplete, and placed her hands softly in her lap, cradling them.

  Sarah clapped gently, not wanting to startle the woman, but Edna didn’t look up. Sarah clapped a bit louder and stopped walking toward the bench, asking tentatively, “Edna—are you okay?”

  “My hands…” Edna started, a slight tremor to her voice. “It’s been so long since my hands haven’t hurt. I just…sat down here…and started playing,” she said haltingly. Edna looked up at Sarah and said in a questioning whisper, “My hands don’t hurt at all.”

  “Edna, that’s wonderful—and you played so beautifully! I haven’t heard you play like that for at least ten years.”

  “I haven’t played like this for seventeen years,” she said flatly, staring at her hands in questioning disbelief. “Seventeen years, Sarah.”

  “Do you want to play more?”

  Edna looked back at Sarah with shiny blue eyes. “Yes, very much, but I do need some sleep.”

  “Sleep? How long have you been up?”

  “I never did make it to bed. I sat on the porch until, oh, midnight I suppose. Then I took a walk around the house. About four o’clock this morning, I sat down here and started playing.”

  “Four o’clock? Edna, that was over three hours ago. You mean to tell me that you’ve been sitting here playing for three-and-a-half hours straight?”

  “Goodness, no. I had to get up and go to the restroom at least twice.”

  Sarah smiled and shook her head. “Edna, this doesn’t sound like you. No sleep, walking around the house all night, playing the piano for hours…”

  Edna ret
urned a warm smile. “I know. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I feel so alive.”

  Both of them laughed and stood up at the same time.

  “Okay,” Sarah said. “Get some sleep now, but then come down in a few hours and get something to eat.”

  In mock obedience, Edna replied, “Yes, Miss Tradaul.” She exited using her walker, her pace a bit quicker than the night before.

  OVER THE NEXT several days, Henry continued to impress not only Sarah but a great number of residents as well. Mrs. Hillard on the second floor raved about how quickly Henry had repaired the cupboard door in her kitchen. “What impressed me most was the fact that he actually cleaned up after himself. My kitchen looked cleaner after he left than it did before his arrival.”

  Sarah laughed. She couldn’t help but smile around Mrs. Hillard, who was overly dramatic. Mrs. Hillard’s eyes grew saucer-wide, and she gestured with large sweeping arm movements while describing the wonderful Mr. Legna. She was just as aware as everyone else that she was a bit over the top, but she didn’t care. Her enthusiasm was intentional. It made her feel energized and young.

  “Mrs. Hillard, you seem especially energetic today,” Sarah remarked.

  Mrs. Hillard smiled good-naturedly. “Would you believe I walked three miles yesterday?”

  Sarah doubted this, as few of her residents did much walking. There were many more warmed-over seats in Brockman House than there were sweaty workout clothes.

  “I haven’t felt this alive in years!” Mrs. Hillard exclaimed, again making the usual exaggerated sweeping movement above her head.

  “That’s wonderful! And you’re not the only one. There must be something in the air around here. Edna has been playing the piano a lot…”

  Mrs. Hillard interrupted her. “Yes, and I couldn’t help but notice she’s opting for her cane now instead of that walker. And you know,” she pondered, “I think her balance has gotten better.”