3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

by Lois Winston

  “Hey,” I said as I entered the kitchen. Zack stood stirring something on the stove. Ralph, my African Grey parrot, perched on his shoulder. “When did you get home?” I asked.

  “Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?” squawked Ralph. “Romeo and Juliet. Act Two, Scene Four.”

  Did I mention Ralph spouts Shakespeare? Only Shakespeare. And always circumstance-appropriate quotes, thanks to decades of residing in Great-aunt Penelope Periwinkle’s classroom. When Aunt Penelope died two and a half years ago, I inherited Ralph. There are times I would have preferred inheriting her cameo collection, but those went to Mama. At least Ralph is potty trained.

  “A couple of hours ago.” Zack abandoned the sauté pan and greeted me with one of those kisses. He ended the kiss before I was ready and turned his attention back to the sauté pan. Mushrooms in a wine reduction sauce if my olfactory sense was any judge of such things.

  “And after flying halfway round the world, you felt the need to cook a gourmet dinner?”

  “I slept most of the flight.”

  “First class, no doubt.”

  Zack shrugged, which caused Ralph to abandon his shoulder for mine. “A perk of the job.”

  Zack freelances for the Smithsonian and World Wildlife Federation, among others, and always negotiates first class accommodations into his contracts. He says it makes up for the days he spends camped out in jungles and deserts.

  “Flora and the boys mentioned you were moving Lucille to rehab today. I figured you might need a little bit of TLC tonight.”

  I glanced around, straining to hear any other activity from within the house. Aside from the unmistakable roaring snores of Mephisto, coming from the direction of the den, silence greeted my ears. “Speaking of Yenta, the Matchmaker, and her two matchmakers-in-training, where are they? The house is too quiet.”

  Zack poured a glass of wine from the open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc sitting on the counter and handed it to me. “I sent them out for pizza and a movie.”

  “My kind of TLC.” One of the first casualties of my recently acquired single-parent status had been me time. My life now revolved around everyone else 24/7. Having Mama and Lucille living with me only made matters worse. Both were high maintenance, each in her own way.

  Zack tossed a bowl of raw shrimp into the sauté pan. The ensuing sizzle sent up a cloud of steam infused with intense aromas that sent my tummy into growl mode and Ralph into squawk mode.

  “And you even made a supermarket and wine run?” The last time my fridge contained shrimp or my wine rack contained anything other than dust bunnies, I was still living under the false delusion of the American dream.

  “If you’d prefer hot dogs—”

  I held up a hand to stop him mid-sentence. “I’ll suffer through the shrimp.”

  “Smart choice. You’re all out of hot dogs.”

  I opened the refrigerator and took a quick inventory. Damn if he wasn’t right. The man knew more about the contents of my refrigerator and freezer than I did.

  “So how was Madagascar?” I asked as we sat down to dinner. “Safe?” After Zack flew off, I ran a Google search, knowing little about the country except for the eponymous DreamWorks version. What I discovered—an unstable political situation with travelers being warned to exercise extreme caution—made me wish I hadn’t looked.

  Zack is always flying off to iffy locales. For a while I suspected he used the photojournalism gig as a cover for his real work as a government agent. He assures me that’s not the case, but I’m not totally convinced. Spies never admit they’re spies, right? It’s against the spy code.

  “Noisy,” he said. “Did you know there’s a lemur that sounds exactly like a police siren?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “How did Lucille take to rehab?”

  “Like a duck to an oil slick.” I expected the quick change of subject. Other than shortly after we met, when Zack regaled Alex and Nick with a tale set in the Guatemalan jungle, he never talks much about his work. Yet another indicator that sends my skepticism barometer soaring.

  “I did meet some interesting old ladies, though, and bumped into a college roommate I haven’t seen since freshman year.” I proceeded to tell Zack about Lyndella and Mabel, and Kara and the job offer.

  Zack placed his knife and fork on his plate and stared at me for a long moment before saying anything. Then in an extremely serious tone he asked, “Have you discovered a way to go without sleep?”

  “You sound like Cloris. I’ll manage. It’s only for a few months, and the money is too good to pass up.”

  “You could raise my rent.”

  “By over a thousand dollars a month? You might as well buy your own house for what you’d be paying me.”

  “I don’t want my own house. I travel too much. This setup is ideal for my needs, and I don’t mind paying more to keep it that way.”

  It was my turn to employ a serious tone. “I appreciate the gesture, Zack, but I’m not taking any handouts. Not from you. Not from anyone. But especially not from you.”

  “And why is that?”

  I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Maybe not ever. I’d gotten into my current financial predicament by putting too much trust in a man who supposedly cared about me. I couldn’t dig my way out by depending on another man who cared about me. What if he, too, someday stopped caring?

  I stood to clear the table and didn’t answer until I’d turned toward the sink, shielding my face from Zack’s view. “I think you know.”

  _____

  The next morning Alex and Nick took the news of my weekend job with little complaint, probably because neither had football/soccer/baseball/basketball practice this time of year. Having recently turned seventeen, Alex had secured a job at Starbucks. Nearly fifteen-year-old Nick was spending the summer stocking shelves and bagging groceries at Trader Joe’s.

  Both boys had expected to go on a month-long teen tour of Arizona, Colorado, and New Mexico this summer, followed by a family trip to Cambridge in late August to visit Harvard. I’d paid the deposit on the teen tour last December but was forced to ask for a refund in February.

  As for Harvard, that dream had died with Karl. Unless Alex received a fully paid scholarship (and how realistic was that?), he’d be attending Union County Community College a little more than a year from now and continuing to work at Starbucks part-time to cover tuition, books, car payments, and insurance.

  That was my next financial hurdle. At some point this year I’d have to allow Alex to get his license and would have to purchase a second car before next September.

  “How will we get to and from work?” asked Nick as he scarfed down a bowl of cereal.

  “Same way you get to work during the week. Pedal power.”

  “What if it’s raining?”

  “You wear your rain slickers.”

  “Ah, jeez, Mom! You ever try to bike in a thunderstorm? We could get fried by lightning.”

  “He has a point,” said Alex. “You know how fast summer storms pop up around here.”

  “They can just as easily pop up during the week.”

  “This was supposed to be such a cool summer,” grumbled Nick.

  “Life sucks,” I said. “Consider how much more it would suck if you lived in Haiti.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No, it’s supposed to make me feel better.”

  I had to keep reminding myself that at least we still had a roof over our heads, and I still had a job. Most of the people in the world were a lot worse off than the residents of Casa Pollack. Most didn’t go on summer teen tours or attend Ivy League colleges. Most would be happy to trade places with us. I knew all this.

  But I’d worked damn hard to give my kids the American dream. Karl had not only robbed our b
ank accounts, he’d robbed Alex and Nick of their futures. Alex deserved to go to Harvard. He’d worked his butt off, and I’d sacrificed being a stay-at-home mom so my kids could be whatever they wanted to be. That was the pact. They worked hard at school; their father and I worked hard to pay for their college educations. Someone didn’t hold up his end of the bargain.

  When Karl and I wed, I agreed to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. Nowhere did those vows mention to trust blindly and without question.

  Ay, there’s the rub, as Ralph would squawk.

  If only I’d taken the least bit of interest in our family finances. Had I not been so trusting, maybe I would have noticed that two plus two no longer added up to four. My trust in my spouse had made me his unwitting accomplice. I’d carry that guilt around with me for the rest of my life.

  “Does Grandma know about this new job?” asked Alex.

  I tossed back the last swig of my coffee before answering him. “Not yet. She’s still sleeping. I’ll tell her later.” I got up and carried my dishes to the sink. “I’m leaving. I walked Mephisto earlier, but one of you should walk him again before you leave for work later.”

  “Your turn, bro,” said Nick.

  “How do you figure that?” asked Alex.

  “I walked him last.”

  “Mom walked him last.”

  “I mean last night.”

  I grabbed my purse and keys, leaving the house and their bickering behind, and headed for Sunnyside.

  _____

  Shirley Hallstead was waiting for me in her office, the door ajar. She once again wore a power suit, this one navy with brass buttons, and once again not a hair on her head dared stick out of place. I also noted the Prussian blue Birkin bag prominently displayed on her desk. Most working women place their purses in a desk drawer or file cabinet while at work. Then again, most working women don’t carry around handbags that cost thousands of dollars.

  I knocked on the jam, and she turned her attention from her computer screen, waving me in and directing me to the chair adjacent to her desk. “Give me a minute to finish this up,” she said.

  While she clicked away, I surveyed the room. Dozens of awards and commendations—some for Shirley, others for Sunnyside—hung on the walls, along with framed newspaper clippings about Sunnyside and Shirley. There was also an assortment of framed diplomas. Shirley held a bachelor of science degree in nursing as well as masters degrees in nursing, social work, and business administration from Rutgers University.

  Framed photos of her with various past and present local and state politicians dotted the shelves of a wall unit and lined the top of a bookcase. Not a single family photo in the mix. No husband. No kids. Not even a snapshot of a pet. It seemed Shirley Hallstead’s entire life revolved entirely around her career.

  “I don’t usually work on Saturdays,” she said, finally turning her attention to me, “but I figured as long as I was waiting for you, I’d catch up on some paperwork.”

  Was she blaming me for forcing her to give up part of her weekend? Hadn’t she requested we meet this morning? And if she’d only come in today for me, what was with the power suit? She hardly needed to dress up to have me fill out the requisite paperwork.

  Speaking of which, she reached across the desk and handed me a clipboard of papers. “However,” she continued, “I’m happy to be here today if it means I’ve filled our staffing vacancy. I had someone all lined up, but she found a full-time position and bailed on me yesterday morning. You can imagine how thrilled I was when Kara told me you’d agreed to take the job.”

  I guess she wasn’t blaming me. “But you have someone for the rest of week?”

  “Yes.”

  I was a bit puzzled by the urgency attached to filling a few extra hours of a non-critical staff position. “Surely, you could go for a few weeks without holding arts and crafts classes on the weekends.”

  Shirley sighed. “If only it were that simple. I need the program staffed forty hours a week. Normally, that would be Mondays through Fridays, but the person I was able to hire to replace Kara can’t give me that many hours each week. The additional person I hired for the remaining hours is the one who quit on me.”

  I placed the clipboard on the edge of Shirley’s desk. “Before I start in on paperwork, I need my responsibilities outlined. I don’t know what Kara told you, but I have no training as an art therapist.”

  “You went to art school, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I know you must do crafts, given what you mentioned yesterday. Any teaching experience?”

  “Prior to working at the magazine, I taught art in the public school system for several years.”

  She clapped her hands together. “What could be more perfect? As far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Pollack, you’re abundantly qualified. Think of this as running a school arts and crafts program. Except instead of kids, you’ve got geriatric students. You give them projects, supervise them, help those having trouble.”

  “That’s it?”

  “In a nutshell. Most of the men and women who will take advantage of weekend classes have worked with their hands throughout their lives. They know what to do, but now because of advancing age, they often have trouble completing tasks that were once second nature to them.”

  “Lyndella Wegner and the other women I saw in the needlework class yesterday must be the exceptions. Those women needed no help.”

  “To some extent, but even they have their good days and bad days. They mostly need praise, guidance, and encouragement, but just wait until it rains and their arthritis acts up. They become very frustrated and depressed.”

  “So I’m more a proctor than anything?” Or babysitter.

  “Your job will be to help when needed. Propose new projects when current ones are completed. Demonstrate techniques to those interested in trying something new.

  “I’d also like you to get them more interested in crafting for various charities like Caps for Kids. We get great PR for Sunnyside out of that, and I’d like to see more of it.”

  Translation: Shirley wanted her picture in the newspaper more often.

  “Finally,” she continued, “you’ll need to organize rotating exhibits of our residents’ art works in the lobby and commons areas.”

  “I’m assuming these exhibits are G-rated? Nothing from Lyndella Wegner’s Blue Period?”

  Shirley’s face hardened. “Definitely not.”

  “And Lyndella’s okay with that? She strikes me as a woman who likes to call the shots rather than take orders.”

  “She has no choice in the matter. We have children who come to visit their grandparents. I don’t need a lawsuit on my hands because someone’s five year old was traumatized by a six-foot penis.”

  “I hope that was hyperbole.”

  Shirley gave a sigh of frustration. “So far, but with Lyndella one never knows.”

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on a neat stack of file folders. Her business-like demeanor returned, and her voice grew serious. “As people age, tasks that once seemed simple become difficult, even for those without any underlying medical conditions. Self-esteem often plummets. These classes and the exhibits are a form of creative social work, a way of making our residents feel useful and appreciated.”

  “Where does the therapy come in?” I had college friends who went on to do masters programs in art therapy. There had to be more to an art therapy major than what Shirley Hallstead just described.

  “You don’t need to worry yourself about that. We have the trained therapist, Kara’s replacement, on staff during the week for those who need such services. You’ll work with those who want to avail themselves of the arts and crafts room on the weekends, the full-time residents in independent housing and assisted living, not our rehab patient
s.”

  I could do that. Then again, so could most seventeen year old day camp counselors. Maybe Kara had been mistaken about the pay. “Kara mentioned thirty-five dollars an hour?”

  Shirley changed the subject. “Have you noticed the watercolors hanging in the lobby and hallways throughout Sunnyside?”

  I had, but I didn’t see how they connected to a thirty-five dollars an hour salary. When I nodded, she continued. “They were all painted by Mildred Burnbaum, a retired art teacher and deceased Sunnyside resident. Mrs. Burnbaum left Sunnyside the collection as well as a yearly grant for the express purpose of staffing art classes with qualified personnel. As a former teacher, she realized the importance of such programs, especially for the elderly. The bequest stipulates the number of hours a week and the salary, adjusted each year to the cost of living index.”

  “Generous woman.”

  “Indeed.” Shirley gave me another tight-lipped smile. “It’s one of the reasons that Sunnyside has such an excellent reputation. Our residents don’t sit around watching television all day. However, if we don’t comply with the terms of the grant, we lose the money. Permanently. We’re back to staffing a part-time art therapist a few hours a week and no one to run an arts and crafts program for the non-rehab residents.”

  Sounded exactly like the public schools statewide. I couldn’t go back to teaching had I wanted to. School districts no longer had money for the arts in their budgets. “That would be a shame,” I said.

  Shirley agreed with a nod. “The overseer of the trust, Mildred’s oldest son, is a greedy, anal bastard, prone to surprise visits. He’s hoping to catch us in noncompliance one of these days so he no longer has to share his mother’s estate with us. That’s why I need the program staffed forty hours a week without interruption and why I was put in such a bind yesterday.”

  This explained Kara’s high octane sales pitch. She must have just learned that she’d have no job to come back to after her maternity leave if Shirley didn’t find a last-minute replacement for the teacher who'd bailed on her. Chad might be making big bucks with the Giants, but Kara wasn’t about to give up her shop-till-you-drop funds without pulling out every available stop. Lucille’s stint at Sunnyside turned out to be a bit of financial serendipity for both of us.