Bingoed

by Patricia Rockwell

  They all rolled their walkers, twisting their vehicles expertly around the bedroom doorframe (something they had learned to do in their own apartments which were identical to this one) until they were all in Bob’s bedroom. Essie shut the bedroom door.

  Almost immediately there was a knock on Bob’s main door.

  “Bob?” called out a female voice from the hallway. “Bob, are you back? Are you back from the hospital?”

  The women remained frozen as the unknown woman continued knocking and calling to Bob. After a few moments, they heard the front doorknob turn and the front door open.

  Sounds of footsteps indicated that the woman, whoever she was, had moved slightly inside the door.

  “Bob, are you home?” she called out. “Bob, did they release you from the hospital? I was just checking on you.”

  The unknown woman stood there a while and waited. The three women hiding in the bedroom were frozen in silence. Finally, the woman in the living room gave an audible sigh and turned and left, closing the front door behind her. After a few minutes, when they were fairly certain she was gone for good, the three friends returned to the living room from the bedroom.

  “What was that?” asked Marjorie, hanging over her walker and panting.

  “I’m guessing she was a friend of Bob’s—maybe Hazel or Rose or Evelyn, one of his tablemates--who for some reason thought that he was home from the hospital,” suggested Opal, as she nervously rolled her walker back and forth.

  “She evidently didn’t hear that he’s in a COMA!” shrieked Essie in a whispered scream.

  “I know,” said Marjorie. “She must have seen that the lock wasn’t on his door! She walks by this door all the time and had seen the lock here when she knew he’d been taken to the hospital. Then tonight, she walks by and there’s no security lock! So, all of a sudden, she assumes that he’s better and that he’s returned home and back in his apartment.”

  “That’s it!” agreed Essie. “What a close call! I don’t know how we’d explain ourselves if she’d found us.”

  “Much more easily than we would explain ourselves if Violet found us!” noted Opal, shaking her head.

  “You’re right,” said Marjorie, “Can we get out of here, Essie?”

  “Yes, let’s get going,” agreed Essie. “I’ll read this letter when I get back to my place.”

  Essie slipped the letter in the envelope under the seat of her walker which contained a nice compartment for carrying things. Then the threesome carefully checked outside the doorway before entering the hallway. Essie slipped the security lock back on Bob’s front doorknob and, using the small gold key, locked it back in place. Opal then took the key and the three ladies rolled quietly to the corner of the main hallway. Carefully checking around the corner and seeing no one in sight, they turned onto the main second floor corridor and headed to the elevator. When they reached the elevator, the door was just opening. They passed several residents exiting who had obviously just returned from visiting with Geoffrey George because they were still talking about Ducky and Doozie. Essie and Marjorie and Opal entered the elevator. When they were alone inside the compartment, they all breathed a sigh of relief. On the main floor, Essie led her two friends to her apartment (after a quick stop at the front desk where Opal discreetly returned the gold key).

  Inside Essie’s apartment, the women sat in Essie’s living room and Essie removed the envelope that she had taken from Bob Weiderley’s desk from under her walker seat.

  “It’s from a Ben Jericho and it was postmarked yesterday” explained Essie.

  “And the postman delivers the mail in the afternoon,” said Marjorie.

  “Yes, mail is usually put in our boxes mid-afternoon,” said Essie. Then, she slapped her forehead with her hand.

  “What?” asked Opal.

  “When I asked Fay what she thought Bob was upset about. . .”

  “You asked Fay, Essie?” queried Marjorie.

  “She probably doesn’t even know Bob is in the hospital,” added Opal.

  “Yes,” continued Essie, “but when I asked her, she said ‘box’ and she said it twice. Don’t you find that strange? Maybe she does know something. Maybe she knows he got a letter in his mail box that upset him.”

  “I doubt it,” argued Marjorie. “What could she know? She sleeps through the day.”

  “But she did beat us at Canasta this morning!” noted Essie.

  “That was a fluke!” said Opal.

  “Never mind,” said Essie, “let’s just figure out what to do about this letter.”

  “If Bob read this letter yesterday afternoon,” suggested Opal, “then it’s quite likely the reason he was so upset at supper.”

  “Yes!” said Marjorie, “it must be the reason!”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” said Essie. She opened the letter. Inside were two pages of handwritten prose and a photograph of a man. There was nothing on the back of the picture.

  “Read it!” ordered Marjorie.

  “Okay,” said Essie. “It’s addressed ‘Dear Mr. Weiderley.’” Essie began to read. “This letter may come as a shock to you. . .”

  “Oh, no!” said Marjorie. “A shock!”

  “This letter may come as a shock to you, or it may not. You may not even believe it, but I assure you everything I tell you is true.”

  “No wonder poor Bob was so upset at supper. Just the opening petrifies me,” said Opal.

  “My name is Ben Jericho. I have a good life—a wife and three wonderful children. My father died over ten years ago. He was a wonderful man and I miss him terribly. I was lucky that my mother was in good health until just recently. Last year, my mother became quite ill. She realized that she didn’t have much time left. Several weeks before she died, she called me to her home to discuss something with me. I thought it would be about burial arrangements or something she wanted done at her funeral. I was totally surprised when she told me that she’d been keeping a secret from me my entire life. She realized that now that she was about to die, she owed it to me to tell me the truth. I had absolutely no idea what she meant. My mother then told me that the man I had considered to be my father all these years was actually not my father.

  “She told me that when she was very young, right before World War II, she met a young soldier who was about to be shipped off. She felt sorry for him and was concerned about him and she decided to spend his last few days of freedom with him, trying to provide him with something to remember. She never intended for their time together to become intimate—but it did. And by the end of their three days together, she told me she had fallen deeply in love with this man—and, she believed, he with her. But, it didn’t matter. He was shipped off to war—and she never heard from him again.

  “A few months later, she met my father and they started dating. They became serious and when my mother realized that she was pregnant, she told my father what had happened with the soldier several months previous. Being the wonderful, gracious gentleman that he was, it didn’t matter to my father. They were married and he raised me as his own son—which I was for all intents and purposes. They had a wonderful marriage. There was not only me, but eventually they had children of their own—my sister, and two other brothers.

  “I miss my father and mother terribly. I was quite happy to let matters stand where they were. Unfortunately, my mother was not content to do that. When she realized that she was dying, she insisted that I try to find my biological father—the soldier she had fallen in love with before he left for war. She asked me to find him FOR her. She knew she would never live to see him. She didn’t want to cause him any distress and she certainly didn’t want me to cause him any distress, but she truly believed that I should know my real father.

  “She told me his name. She said he would remember her. She said to tell him that she was the girl with the smiling eyes. Her maiden name was Julia Warren and she married Andrew Jericho. She said my real father’s name was Bob Weiderley.”

  “Oh my God!�
�� cried Marjorie.

  Essie continued reading.

  “I have been looking for Bob Weiderley—my biological father. There are a few men named Bob Weiderley in the country, but not any that have all the criteria that my mother described. I believe I have found the correct Bob Weiderley—the Bob Weiderley that once upon a time loved my mother, Julia Warren. I believe that Bob Weiderley is you, sir. Mr. Weiderley, I believe I am your son—yours and Julia’s.

  I don’t know your situation, Mr. Weiderley. I don’t wish to disrupt your family or cause you any anguish. If you wish to communicate with me, we can do so without ever mentioning our situation to anyone else. I’ve enclosed a recent photograph of me. I hope you see yourself and my mother in my features. People have always said I look like my mother.

  Sincerely,

  Ben Jericho”

  “Oh, my God!” exclaimed Marjorie. “No wonder Bob collapsed! Let me see his photo.” Essie passed the small picture to her two friends.

  “Do you think he looks like Bob?” asked Opal.

  “I can’t tell,” responded Marjorie.

  “The poor man!” added Opal.

  “Poor man is right!” said Essie. “I say, this is all a crock of doo doo!”

  “What?” screeched Marjorie, “this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Romantic,” sneered Essie, “this man—this Ben Jericho—is after Bob’s five million dollars!”

  “Oh,” said Marjorie, deflated. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you really think he’d do that? I mean, we didn’t know that Bob was rich. How could this Jericho fellow find out about Bob’s money?”

  “Essie,” added Opal, “you really believe that this man is playing some scam on Bob?”

  “I’d bet money on it,” said Essie, then added, “But I certainly wouldn’t bet five million dollars!”

  “Would Bob collapse just because he thought someone was trying to scam him?” asked Marjorie.

  “But Essie, what this Jericho says in his letter just might be true,” argued Opal.

  “I doubt it. Bob is a multi-millionaire and he’s a lonely old man with no family. He’s the perfect target for such a scam,” argued Essie.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Marjorie.

  “We’re going to confront this Ben Jericho!” announced Essie. “But, first we’re going to find out everything we can about him.”

  “How?” asked Opal. “How can three old ladies track down some scam artist?”

  “If he is a scam artist,” said Marjorie.

  “We can do what we do best,” said Essie. “Use our feminine wiles.”

  “What feminine wiles?” asked Opal. “I’m not sure I ever had any and I’m quite sure I don’t have any now.”

  “You sell yourself short, Opal,” said Essie. “It’s just a matter of figuring out what we need to know and then finding it.”

  “Essie,” said Marjorie, “it’s after eight o’clock. My aide will be by soon to give me my evening meds. If I’m not in my room, she’ll come looking for me.”

  “Me too,” agreed Opal. “It’s hard to be a detective when you’re so conspicuous.”

  “I know,” agreed Essie. “But, we can do it. We just need to keep our eyes and ears open. Let me think about this and we’ll reconnoiter tomorrow.”

  “I assume that means something that doesn’t involve a high speed chase,” added Marjorie.

  “If it does,” said Essie with a wink, “just remember, we have the fastest speed walkers in the place!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “My idea of Hell is to be young again.”

  —Marge Piercy

  The next morning was cool but clear. Unfortunately, Essie’s mind was not clear. She had tossed and turned all night long trying to figure out what—if anything—to do about the letter from the mysterious Ben Jericho that now resided on her nightstand like some ravenous, monster from the darkest reaches of Hell. As the sunlight poured into her living room, it illuminated the rectangle with its colorful stamp in the corner that she had placed on her end table next to her telephone. After DeeDee had helped her dress and given her her meds, she’d sat in her favorite chair and thought. No crossword puzzle this morning for me, she thought. As she had contemplated her options during her sleepless night, she had come to only a few conclusions. First, she had concluded that she was going to do something. That is, she wasn’t going to just return the letter to Bob’s room and pretend as if nothing had happened. She firmly believed that this letter was the event that had led to Bob’s collapse and ultimately his coma. She knew she had to do something about it, but she didn’t know exactly what.

  What were her options? She could confess her theft and take the letter to Violet and let her deal with this Ben Jericho. No, that wouldn’t work. Violet was strictly hands-off residents’ private business. She would just chastise Essie for breaking into Bob’s room, return the letter, and then do nothing about the scam artist Jericho. No, telling Violet or anyone else in authority was not an option. She—and Opal and Marjorie (and Fay)—would have to handle this themselves. But how?

  As it was impossible to take the letter to Bob or discuss it with him (and she wasn’t sure that she would do that even if Bob were not in a coma), it meant that she would have to find out if this Jericho’s story of his birth as described in the letter was true. If it was true, well, then that would be Bob’s concern if and when he recovered. If it was not true (which it probably wasn’t), then maybe she could do something about it so that Bob would not have this one more thing to worry about when (if) he did come out of his coma.

  But how? How to track down Ben Jericho? She knew his name, address, and town from the return address on the envelope. She had his photo. She had no phone number. Even if she could get his phone number from long distance information, she didn’t believe she should confront him directly. That would give him an unnecessary advantage—to let him know that someone was on to him. She needed to find out what she could about him without him knowing what she was doing.

  A small, niggling idea began to form in the back of her brain. Hmmm. She had to be careful and approach things carefully, she thought to herself. She would begin with a phone call. She reached for her appointment book and turned to the B’s. Ned Brannigan was the name she was looking for, her grandson. Claudia’s oldest son was some sort of computer wizard (so she was told) and now the CEO of his own computer firm. Claudia often gushed about his accomplishments whenever she visited Essie. A charming, outgoing young man, Ned had inherited Essie’s vigor and cleverness, she thought, so she didn’t feel as if asking for his assistance would be any imposition—even though it was 7:30 a.m.

  “Hello, Ned,” she spoke into her telephone receiver, probably a little louder than necessary. She always found it a bit hard to hear people on the other end. People tended to whisper when they spoke on the phone, she found. “Hello, Ned. This is your Grandma Essie.”

  “Grandma!” responded a cheerful voice. “Wow! It’s early! I’m still in bed. Are you okay?”

  “No, no! I’m just fine,” she laughed. “I’m calling you, Ned, because I need your help.”

  “Of course, Grandma,” replied the young man. “What can I do? Something that Mom can’t help you with? Do you need me to move some furniture for you?”

  “No,” she said. “I need computer help!”

  “Wow, Grandma!” chuckled Ned, “I sure wasn’t expecting to hear you say that! I thought you considered computers the Devil’s instruments.”

  “No, no!” she said, “they’re just way too fancy for me. But, Ned, I have this friend, uh, friend here at Happy Haven who is having a problem. I wonder if maybe you can advise me how to help this . . . friend with a computer question.”

  “I’ll sure try, Grandma,” responded Ned. “What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t even know if it is a computer problem, but if it isn’t, just tell me that too,” she said.

  “Okay,” he laughed, “but almost anything
can be a computer problem nowadays.”

  “Very well,” she said. “My . . . friend is trying to find someone, someone who doesn’t live here in town. They want to find out information about this . . . uh, person, but they don’t want to contact the person directly. They have a name and address but no phone number. Oh, and they have a photograph! I don’t know if that’s important or not.”

  “It could be,” suggested Ned. “And, Grandma, this is definitely a computer problem—one that probably has a fairly easy solution.”

  “Oh, good!” she responded with delight, thinking she had done the right thing by contacting her young grandson.

  “I would simply tell your friend to Google this person,” said Ned. “That should produce a search results page full of information—newspaper columns, online articles, and similar things about the person. Some of those things may have photographs so your friend can verify the photo they have with the photos online.”

  “How do I tell my friend to do this Google thing?” she asked.

  She could hear the gentle laughter over the phone line.

  “If your friend is computer-literate . . .”

  “I guess you mean if my friend uses a computer. He . . . I mean she doesn’t.”

  “You know, Grandma,” continued Ned, “I’ve been trying to get you to let me bring you a small laptop computer that you could use for photos and email and stuff . . .”

  “Thank you, Ned, but I really don’t need one of those things myself,” she explained. “I just need to know what to tell my friend to do to find out about this person.”

  “Would you like me to come over there to Happy Haven and help your friend with an online search? I could come over later this afternoon.”

  “No, no!” she interjected. “My friend is . . . uh . . . sort of shy. Uh, she wouldn’t like that. Let’s just stick with this Google thing.”

  “You can have her do that on one of those two old clunkers they have in the family room at Happy Haven,” he continued.

  “I’ve never used those things, Ned,” she said, cringing.