by Ann B. Ross
A lot of small businesses and lawyers’ offices had set up shop in the area after the thread mill closed some years ago. Lurline had fixed up the former living room as a waiting area for families who wanted to make arrangements for home care of their elderly loved ones. She had it decorated with a hooked rug, a deacon’s bench, wingback chairs, and lots of doilies to keep the upholstery clean. Oh, and a brass eagle over the fireplace. Whatever her other faults, I had to give her credit for good taste when it came to home furnishings.
She’d made the former front bedroom into her office, and it was Early American too, but with a professional look from all the wood-grain file cabinets. Half of them were empty, I happened to know.
Entering through the back door, I marched through the kitchen, which was reserved for EMPLOYEES ONLY. That’s where I’d spent hours and hours training Lurline’s new girls in how to give bed baths and take care of bedsores and check urine for sugar and so forth and so on. And the thought of what I’d done for her made me even madder as I stormed through on my way to her office. She was lucky to have me since I was the only one of the Handy Home Helpers with a degree in assistant nursing from the Abbot County Technical College, although, to be fair, she did help pay for my education. But I’d paid her back a thousand times over, according to my calculations. You’d think she’d show a little appreciation.
I poked my head into the waiting room to be sure no one was there, then walked right into her office. When she looked up and saw me, she closed her checkbook and frowned.
“Aren’t you supposed to be seeing your patients?” She pulled the schedule in front of her, studied it, and said, “You’ve got Mrs. Evans and Mr. Hughes today. Surely you haven’t finished already.” I noticed she didn’t mention Mr. Howard, so she’d known he was off the schedule.
I could’ve snatched her bald-headed for letting me go out there without a clue.
“Lurline,” I said, surprised that steam didn’t come out of my mouth at the same time. “What in the hell did you think you were doing? Did you think I wouldn’t know it was you? Why, is what I want to know.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was sulling up something awful. I could see it in her face, the way her prim little mouth tightened up, and hear it in her voice. She looked out the window, unable to face me. “And, besides,” she said, swinging her head around and glaring at me, “what gives you the right to come in here and yell at me, cussing and carrying on like you don’t need a job? You just better watch your step, young lady.”
“I don’t think you want to fire me, Lurline,” I said, trying to hold back my temper. “You might have to go out and clean a few incontinent patients yourself.” I took a deep breath and sat in one of the captain’s chairs in front of her desk. I looked her over good, noting the white uniform she always wore so the families she interviewed would think she was a nurse and capable of doing what they paid her to do. Of course, the rhinestone-studded chain holding her glasses around her neck and the earrings dangling out from under that frizzy black hair put a damper on the effect. “Why did you have to call Junior Connard, Lurline? I trusted you, and wanted you to be happy for me.”
She drew herself up and pursed her mouth, getting all huffy and self-righteous. “I’ll have you know I’m not paying you to pursue your own interests. I have an obligation to the families not to let anyone take advantage of their loved ones. After all, they’re the ones who foot the bills.”
“Don’t give me that!” I said, squinting up my eyes and giving it right back at her. “You just lost yourself a client, and that’s the last thing you ever want to happen. Unless, of course, you’re going to assign one of the other girls to Mr. Howard, but I warn you, he won’t like it and might just cancel the contract himself. His mind is as clear as it ever was, you might be surprised to know. He won’t take kindly to somebody he doesn’t even know meddling in his business.” I took a deep breath and went right on. “And if you think Junior Connard has any say in this, you are dead wrong. He doesn’t pay one cent for his daddy’s care. All expenses are paid by Mr. Howard’s lawyer, Mr. Ernest Sitton, and you know it as well as I do. No,” I said, shaking my head and clenching my fists, “obligation to the family wasn’t the reason. The reason was, you just didn’t want me to get ahead. You couldn’t stand it that I had a chance to better myself. Just admit it, so I’ll know what kind of friend you are.”
“Now listen, Etta Mae.” She leaned forward in her chair, arms crossed on the desk. She was switching into her I-know-what’s-best-for-you way of talking to me. “I was thinking of you, too. You have a future here in this business and you don’t want to go marrying that old wreck of a man. You’re too young for that, and too pretty. Although, and I have been meaning to mention this, since it has to do with my business image, you need to touch up your roots a little more often. You have to watch these things when you go blond.”
I jumped straight up out of my chair. “You’ve got a nerve! Before you start criticizing my hair, Lurline, why don’t you take a look in the mirror? You’re too old for that dark color, and I don’t know why somebody hasn’t told you before this!”
She jerked back in her chair like I’d slapped her. Which I wanted to do so bad I had to hold myself back. “There’s no need to get personal,” she said.
“What you mean is, there’s no need for me to get personal.” I leaned across her desk, so she’d see I meant business. “But it’s all right for you to criticize me. Well, I’m going to tell you something, and it’ll be the last thing I ever tell you. It’s not over yet. Junior Connard has had his say, but his daddy hasn’t had his. And his daddy’s crazy about me, and he won’t take this sitting down!”
Poor old Mr. Howard couldn’t do anything but sit down, but I didn’t bring that up.
I whirled around and headed for the door, intending to slam it on my way out.
“You going to Mrs. Evans first?” Lurline asked.
“Yes, then to Mr. Hughes. Then I’m going to straighten this mess out on my own time, and I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business from now on.”
And I did slam the door behind me, but not real hard.
• • •
It took most of the day to finish with the others on my list, and it was after six by the time I parked the Camaro by my single-wide. And sat there, stunned at the mess strewn around the door. Garbage cans overturned, with coffee grounds and newspapers and tomato cans and chicken bones and Hardee’s wrappers all across the concrete slab that was my patio. Plus a chair on its side and my geranium uprooted. I leaned my head on the steering wheel, teary-eyed and sick at heart, until the thought of the whole awful day upset me so bad I didn’t know whether to cuss or cry.
This was the absolute last straw. If people couldn’t keep their dang dogs out of other people’s garbage, then they needed to be penned up. Either the dogs or the people, didn’t matter which.
I crawled out of the car and stood there with my hands on my hips, surveying the damage. My single-wide was the only asset I had from two marriages and two divorces, and I was grateful for it and proud of it. When Skip Taggert, my number one ex, hit the road, I’d been so far in the hole I thought I’d never get out. You wouldn’t believe the debts he left me with. I’d had to move back in with Granny, and get one of those credit managers to negotiate with all the people he owed money to. Why, I couldn’t even get a telephone in my own name. Took me six years to get out from under, and it was only with Bernie’s help that I was able to then.
I’d played it cool with Bernie, not letting him get past first base until the ring was on my finger. He would’ve done anything for me, and just about did. He paid up the last of my debts, and I went into that marriage free and clear. He was the happiest man alive to do it for me, too. I made sure of that. We set up housekeeping in the pre-owned single-wide I’m still living in, and you couldn’t have found a prouder woman, nor one so determined t
o express gratitude. Bernie got so much gratitude, in fact, that he could hardly drag into work every morning for a good six months.
Things went downhill, though, when I found out about his gambling habit. But I’d learned a few things from my past experience and made him put the trailer in my name so he couldn’t lose it by drawing to a straight flush. Good thing, too, because he lost his position with A-One Quality New & Used Cars when he bet his Nissan demonstrator on the Carolina Panthers. Which shows you how much sense he had.
My single-wide was as nice as any in Hillandale Trailer Park, and I worked hard to keep it that way. I’d had a green-and-white-striped awning put over the slab in front of the door. It made a real pleasant entrance with the pot of geraniums by the steps, a short-legged grill for when I cooked out, and the two green plastic chairs from Walmart’s. Whatever my other faults, I kept a neat, clean house and tried to improve my surroundings wherever I was.
Now the place looked like a pigpen. I could’ve cried and did, a little bit, while I picked up the mess and swept up the rest of it, straightening the chairs and repotting the geranium. One bloom had been broken off, but I tamped the soil around the plant, hoping what I was muttering under my breath wouldn’t kill it for good.
Then I went inside and locked the door behind me—you can’t be too careful when you live in a trailer park—turned on the AC, and went straight to the shower. No matter how clean you are in your personal habits, when you work around old and sick people, their odor gets all over you.
Wrapped in my old chenille robe, I went into the bedroom to look at my Barbie collection. That always calmed me down, seeing those pretty dolls lined up on the barewood bookcase I’d bought just for them. I loved to dream that I was like one of them, dressed in the proper attire and taking part in all the fun activities that I’d never had a chance to do. Well, and never would, either.
Sighing, I picked up the threadbare giraffe with the limp neck that Bobby Lee had won for me at the fair one year, and hugged it tight. Out of all the stuffed animals I had propped up on my pillows, that old giraffe was the one I loved the best.
Tucking it under my arm, I went to the kitchenette, where I popped a Bud Light, then went around the counter that divided the room in two. I flopped down in Bernie’s leatherette recliner in the living area to rest from my labors and try to gather my wits. I swiveled the chair so I could admire the way my new floral-upholstered couch went with the burnt orange shag carpet on the floor. I was buying it on time from Braden’s Furniture, but the monthly payments were worth it for the pleasure it gave me. Even the first Mrs. Connard, Senior, hadn’t had anything near like it in her house.
Chapter 4
After a while I reached for the phone, feeling about half ready to tackle old lady Springer, who owned the Hillandale Trailer Park, and complain again about garbage pickup and dogs running loose to damage property and mess up a person’s whole day and general outlook on life. I dialed her number, knowing it by heart since I’d had to call it so often.
“Mrs. Springer?” I asked as she answered her phone. “This is Etta Mae Wiggins, remember me? I’m a friend of Hazel Marie’s and I spent the night at your house back in that late winter storm we had when I was Mr. Sam Murdoch’s home health care nurse after he broke his leg? And I was at Binkie and Coleman’s wedding? And I rent a space in the Hillandale Trailer Park that you own? And I always pay my rent on time?”
“I know who you are, Miss Wiggins.” The woman could rub me raw just with the tone of her voice, but I didn’t let on.
“Well, I’m sorry to be calling and complaining again, but it’s been over a week and the garbageman hasn’t been here, and on top of that, somebody’s dogs have been. I came home to a mess today you wouldn’t believe, and I knew you’d want to know about it.”
“What do you want me to do about it, Miss Wiggins?”
Get another garbageman! Call the dog pound! Lock somebody up! Come over here and live with it and see how you like it, I wanted to say. Instead I bit my lip and said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d make the owners of the dogs keep them penned up. At least.”
“Well,” she said, with a long sigh. Like I was putting her out, but she was just too much of a lady to say so. It just burned me up. “I’ll see what I can do, but if you don’t know whose dogs they are, I don’t know that anything can be done.”
“Well, something better be,” I said, trying my best to stay professional, but firm. “I work hard all day, cleaning up after other people, and I don’t need to come home and have to clean up after a pack of dogs!” The whole day was catching up with me, and I was about to lose it. “And I know good and well, Mrs. Springer, that if I just left that mess out there, you’d be sending me an eviction notice.”
“Your lease requires you to keep your space neat and clean,” she said. I knew that. That’s what I was trying to do. That’s why I was calling her. Was everybody after me? Was every effort I made going to be shot down? Seemed like I couldn’t get anywhere for trying.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, hoping she couldn’t tell that I was about to cry. “I do try to keep my place neat and clean, but I need some help here.”
She took another deep breath, and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Now, see? That’s what I’ve been talking about. If Mrs. Howard Connard, Senior, had called with a complaint, that woman would’ve fallen all over herself to straighten it out. But let Etta Mae Wiggins complain and you see what happens.
With an ache in my heart at the unfairness of it all, I hung up. At least the inside of my trailer was neat and attractive, the floral sofa the stunning centerpiece of my home decor. Rubbing my face against Bobby Lee’s giraffe and setting aside Mrs. Julia Springer, I turned my mind to some hard thinking and careful planning, now that a snag in the form of Junior Connard had popped up. Mr. Howard would be counting on me to figure something out, because he knew I wasn’t the type to sit back and let Junior or anybody else mess up our plans.
Reaching for the remote, I turned on the TV, zipping through stations until I got to CMT, the country music station that I always listened to when I had hard thinking to do. Tracy Lawrence was singing about time marching on, and don’t it ever. There’s so much truth in country music, if people would only take it to heart. I sank back into the recliner and flipped it to maximum recline. I lay back and studied my bare feet with Roundup Red polish painted on my toes. Then I cocked my left leg up so I could admire the tiny butterfly tattooed in blue and green and rose on the inside of my ankle. Bobby Lee had gone crazy over it. He used to reach across the bed and grab me by the ankle so he could . . . But that was in some of our more intimate moments.
I didn’t have the time nor the inclination to dwell on Bobby Lee Moser. Now was the time to think of the future. The immediate future, and what I could do to outmaneuver Junior Connard.
I knew Junior wouldn’t stay around Delmont long. He’d made his life over in Raleigh, and in the year or so I’d been looking after Mr. Howard, Junior had never once come to see him. If I hadn’t known so much about the Connard family already, due to the fact that everybody in Delmont kept up with everybody else, especially the most prominent family in town, I would’ve never known there was a Junior.
So it wasn’t like I had to worry about Junior staying around and taking over Mr. Howard’s care himself. And from what I’d heard, there was no danger of his current wife letting herself be saddled with a stroke-stricken father-in-law. She was a TV anchorperson on Your Live Local Late-Breaking News at Six O’Clock in Raleigh, and not about to interrupt her career to look after anybody twenty-four hours a day. I could just see her messing up that lacquered hair as she got Mr. Howard settled on the commode.
The one thing I did have to worry about was Junior putting Mr. Howard in a nursing home with a restriction on who visited him. There were three nursing homes in the area, two over in Abbotsville and one right outside Delmont. I didn’
t think much of any of them, though they all had state licenses. Last year I’d helped get old Mrs. Stanton moved into the Mountain Ridge Rest Home, and I wouldn’t put my dog in there. If I had a dog. Poor old thing, she’d cried and held on to me that day till I thought I’d cry with her. Her daughter’d said she had Alzheimer’s, but I think she was just old and confused. I mean, wouldn’t you be confused if your daughter came into your house and cleaned and straightened and moved everything out of its place so you couldn’t find your glasses or your pocketbook or your nightgown?
You have to realize that old people don’t like change. And they don’t like people, even if they are kin, coming in and taking over what’s been theirs for seventy years, either.
I didn’t think Junior would consider the Mountain Ridge Rest Home or the Bonny Acres, but he might the Aycock Center because it was private and expensive. I figured that he’d think the more expensive the better, especially since the payments wouldn’t come out of his pocket. He could go back to Raleigh satisfied that his old daddy was getting the best of care and that somebody would always be around to keep me away from him.
So that was one possibility, one that I thought I could get around. There’re ways to get around any restrictions Junior might set up in this town. It might take some time, though, and I didn’t have time to waste.
Well, I had plenty, but Mr. Howard probably didn’t. Not that he was dying or anything like that, but once a victim of stroke, always a candidate for another one. That’s what his doctor’d said. Along with instructions for Mr. Howard to avoid high-salt, high-fat foods and mental or physical stress. And you couldn’t tell me that throwing him in a nursing home wouldn’t bring about plenty of mental stress. I knew he wouldn’t want to be committed to an old folks’ home, and I knew he’d be fit to be tied if he couldn’t have me around.
