Bingoed

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Actually . . .—” squeaked Essie in a tiny voice, “now that I look at him, I don’t think it’s the same man.”

  “But, Essie, you said the man who scammed you was named Ben Jericho.”

  “Uh, did I?” she waffled. “Maybe I just mentioned to Phyllis that this man looked like that scammer and Phyllis happened to say his name and maybe I happened to think that name sounded like the name of the man who scammed me . . . . I’m not really positive, Miss Violet.” She gave Violet a wistful look, trying to appear as absentminded and senile as she definitely wasn’t.

  “Oh,” said Violet, continuing to tap her folder on her palm. “Mr. Jericho, I believe we may owe you an apology. We’re truly sorry. Sometimes a resident gets a—bee in her bonnet.” At this point she turned her head and glared at Essie. “Sometimes a resident comes to believe something that simply isn’t true and is able to convince our staff.” She turned her head around and raised her voice loud enough so that Phyllis standing behind the counter realized that she was being included in this group chastisement.

  Ben Jericho appeared flustered and mystified by this little drama that only peripherally appeared to pertain to him.

  “That’s all right,” said the man, “I understand. I had elderly parents and sometimes . . .—” He let his argument trail as he became lost in a memory. Essie watched the man’s face.

  “Wonderful,” said Violet, beaming as soon as she had received what she obviously considered the appropriate response—that is, a response that would not get Happy Haven—or her—in any difficulty, particularly any legal difficulty. “Now that we have that misunderstanding cleared up, how can I help you, Mr. Jericho? Just what are you trying to sell to Mr. Weiderley?”

  “I’m not trying to sell him anything,” said Jericho, his face falling in surprise. “It’s a personal matter. I sent him a letter and I was hoping I’d hear back from him. When I didn’t, I called but got no answer. So finally, I decided I’d just drive down here and try to talk to him myself.”

  “I see,” said Violet, still tapping. She chewed her lower lip. Essie could see her dilemma. Should she—could she—ethically reveal to this man Bob’s whereabouts considering she didn’t know him and didn’t know whether or not Bob would want him to be made aware of his location? Even if he wasn’t a scam artist, Violet was ethically bound to protect Bob Weiderley and as Bob was presently in a coma there was no way for her to ask Bob whether or not he wanted this Ben Jericho to know where he was.

  “Really, Miss . . . uh . . . Hendrickson,” continued Jericho, “I only wish to speak briefly with Mr. Weiderley. I’d be happy to talk to him here in the lobby—in your presence, if that will make you feel better. If you believe I pose some sort of threat to him, you can search me or whatever you need to do. You can run a background check. I assure you, my intentions towards Mr. Weiderley are honorable and I mean him no harm.”

  “Actually,” stated Violet, “that won’t be possible.” Essie waited with baited breath to see how Violet would handle Jericho’s request.

  “What?” cried out Jericho. “Just a brief conversation?”

  “Mr. Jericho,” she said calmly, “it’s not that we wish to prevent you from conversing with Mr. Weiderley. It’s simply that he’s not here at the moment.”

  “I can wait,” replied Jericho.

  “You might have to wait quite some time,” said Violet.

  Essie cringed, fearing that the Director was going to tell the man that the person he sought was two blocks down the road in the Fairview Hospital. However, she didn’t.

  “No,” said Violet, smiling warmly at the man, “Mr. Weiderley is on vacation with several of his buddies.”

  “But he must be 85 or 86,” noted Jericho.

  “Yes,” agreed Violet, “but he’s very vital. Every year about this time, a group of his old Army buddies get together for a fishing trip. I’m not really certain where they’ve gone or exactly when they’ll return.”

  “You’d let him leave just like that?” queried Jericho.

  “Sir,” said Violet, now standing to indicate that she considered the meeting finished, “this is not a prison. Our residents are free to leave when they wish. All we ask is that they sign out. Mr. Weiderley signed out several days ago with a return date listed as ‘unknown’ and a destination listed as ‘fishing.’” She opened her folder and appeared to be reading from Bob’s file.

  Jericho sighed audibly and shook his head. “Can I leave my number? I’d appreciate if you’d call if you hear from him before he returns.”

  “Absolutely,” responded Violet, accepting the business card from the man. “Have a nice day.” With a nod, she stepped quickly out of the lobby and back into the office wing. Jericho remained standing before the chair. Essie looked up at him.

  “Mr. Jericho,” she said, “I really am sorry I caused you this trouble. You really want to contact Bob, don’t you?”

  “You’ll never know,” sighed Jericho, sliding back down into the chair. Essie leaned forward and spoke warmly to him.

  “I really did think you were that scam artist at first,” she confided, “but now that I’ve met you, I can see that you are genuine. You do just want to talk to Bob, don’t you?”

  “Do you know where he went fishing, Miss . . . Essie?” asked Jericho, reaching out and grabbing one of her hands in his.

  “Are you visiting here for long, Mr. Jericho?” she asked.

  “I just got here this morning. I checked into a motel nearby because I planned to spend some time . . . uh . . . talking to Bob, Mr. Weiderley.”

  “Sometimes Bob contacts one of his friends here at Happy Haven when he’s . . . on one of his . . . fishing trips.”

  “You mean you, Miss Essie?” he asked.

  “Oh, no!” she laughed. “I’m not at his table.” Jericho looked puzzled. Essie continued. “Everyone is assigned to a table and we eat all our meals at the same table. So we really get to know our tablemates.”

  “I see,” he replied. “Do you know Mr. Weiderley’s tablemates?”

  She thought about revealing this information, which of course, she knew, but hesitated because she assumed that Jericho would immediately contact Hazel, Rose, or Evelyn and none of them would have a second thought about telling him Bob’s whereabouts. “Uh, no, I don’t know them. Actually, I don’t know Mr. Weiderley all that well. I believe I played cards with him once or twice.”

  “Did you like him?” he asked.

  “Very much,” she said. “A very sweet, gentle man. I’d hate for anything bad to happen to him.”

  “I wouldn’t want anything . . . bad . . . to happen to him either. So, he plays cards and likes to go fishing?” he asked her.

  “What?” she said, confused. “Oh, yes fishing.” Of course, as far as she knew, Bob Weiderley had never been fishing a day in his life.

  “My Dad used to take me fishing,” said Ben Jericho wistfully.

  “I’m sure that’s a wonderful way for a father and a son to bond,” she replied as he continued to reminisce.

  “A father and son. Yes,” he said.

  “Do you live far from here, Mr. Jericho?” she asked.

  “About two hundred miles,” he said, “not too far to drive, but not a trip I can make every day.”

  “You’re a busy man?”

  “Yes, unfortunately,” he answered, “but I cleared a few days to come down here.”

  “This trip must be very important to you, then,” she suggested.

  “It’s the most important thing in my life,” he said seriously, looking at his hands.

  “What hotel are you in, Mr. Jericho?” she asked at length.

  “The Magnolia Hotel,” he replied, “it’s just a few miles down this street. Here, Miss Essie, let me give you my card. If you should hear from Mr. Weiderley or if you think of any way I can contact him, would you please call me? I have a cell phone and this bottom number is my direct personal line.” He handed her an embossed card with black and gold filigre
ed lettering noting the name of the company—Medilogicos—and underneath his name—several phone numbers and an email address.

  “Of course, Mr. Jericho,” she said, taking the card and examining it. “This is a beautiful business card. What does your company do?”

  “We produce computer software for various medical devices and services. Actually, we are one of the few companies in the world that is devoted to such services.”

  “My, my!” she replied. “How impressive! And it says here you’re the Executive Director of Research and Development.”

  “That’s just business lingo,” he replied modestly. “It should just say ‘inventor.’”

  “Your family must be very proud of you.”

  “Proud, I don’t know,” he said laughing. “My wife would probably just like to see more of me. My kids think I’m a geek.”

  She laughed and he joined her. Finally, he rose and bent down and gave her a brief hug and then turned and exited the front entrance.

  Essie followed him with her eyes and then looked back down at his business card, gleaming in her hands.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read.”

  —Francis Bacon

  When she arrived back in her apartment, the telephone was ringing again. Oh no, she thought. Not again! However, when she answered, it was only her oldest daughter Prudence confirming her doctor appointment for the next morning. Prudence typically took her to all of her appointments and tomorrow’s outing was quite a distance—to a neighboring town where her gerontologist (a fancy term for old people’s doctor) had her office. Luckily, Essie only had to see this particular doctor twice a year. Essie considered the long trip a complete waste of time. The lady physician usually just asked her a few inane questions, renewed her prescription, and then sent her on her way. The only good thing about the outings was that she and Pru could enjoy all the wonderful flowering trees that lay between Happy Haven and the doctor’s faraway location.

  Essie was exhausted—even more than usual. That encounter with Ben Jericho and the confrontation she was forced to endure with Violet had taken the stuffing out of her—as her father would have said. After a quick potty break, she rolled over to her bed and fell backwards onto her soft mattress. She was sound asleep in a few minutes. When she woke up—seemingly just a little bit later—she was refreshed. Glancing at her wristwatch, she realized that it was almost time for dinner. In fact, she expected the dinner call to come over the intercom at any moment. She pulled herself up. Her bones ached. She had been scooting around much too fast and much too far in the last day or two in her efforts to track down the cause of Bob Weiderley’s collapse at Bingo. She really needed to take it easy. And she would, she promised herself, just after she figured out what had happened to Bob and what she could do to help him.

  Pulling herself upright and hanging onto her walker for support, she pushed herself into her bathroom and ran a brush through her newly coifed hair. How quickly a new style became disheveled! She looked like a chicken, feathers jutting out everywhere from her scalp. Oh, well, she shrugged, patting her nose with a small powder puff. That’s good enough for now. Grabbing the rubber handles on her walker, she headed out her apartment door just as the Intercom sizzled to life and Phyllis’s sweet voice sang out the call to dinner.

  She was first at the entrance; the waiter in charge let her through and she wheeled herself to her table. Another waiter came around and poured her water and asked if she’d like anything to drink. She ordered iced tea and opened her menu and began to read the evening’s choices while she waited for Marjorie, Opal, and Fay to arrive. Soon more residents began to fill the hall. Eventually, her three table companions arrived, talking and laughing as they took their places. Waiters soon surrounded the table again and brought the newcomers their chosen drinks.

  “I suppose I should call our meeting to order,” said Essie when the waiters had receded and the women were alone. “I have a lot to report. How about the rest of you?”

  “Not much,” answered Marjorie, “because the lady who ran the trivia game today was brand new—a volunteer. It was her first time. I doubt she even knew the names of the players at the table, let alone any dirt on anyone else. Sorry.”

  “What about the players?” asked Essie. “Did you get a chance to talk to any of them?”

  “The only one that might be of interest to us was Hazel Brubaker,” said Marjorie. “I did sort of indicate to her my concern for Bob and she seemed thankful for it. He appears to be still in a coma. She did say that Rose was visiting him again today with her daughter.”

  “That’s something,” said Essie. “Opal, look over at Bob’s table. Is Rose there?”

  “No,” said Opal. “I only see two women at that table. I think just Hazel and Evelyn.”

  “Maybe Rose is still at the hospital,” offered Marjorie.

  “Maybe,” agreed Essie. “What about you, Opal? Did you find out anything at physical therapy?”

  “Not about Bob,” noted tall, stern Opal, stretching out her arms, “but I did learn a few pieces of interesting information about some of the staff members.”

  “Do tell,” said Marjorie, leaning over the table.

  “You know the therapists come in from the outside. They’re not employed by Happy Haven directly. So, I’m guessing that the reason they talk among themselves about staff members here is probably because they know that no one here has any authority over them.”

  “Probably,” agreed Essie.

  “Anyway,” continued Opal, “one of the therapists who evidently has been working with patients here for many years was complaining about some of the procedures here. You know, how workers sometimes talk as if their clients either aren’t listening or don’t care about what they’re saying. Anyway, one therapist was complaining about Violet and her strict requirements for the therapists. The therapist was saying that she worked for this particular therapy service—not for Violet. She took her orders from this service, but Violet gave orders to her and expected her to obey them as if Violet had the authority to fire a therapist if she wanted.”

  “Couldn’t Violet refuse to let a therapist work on a resident if she didn’t like the therapist?” asked Marjorie.

  “I doubt it, unless the therapist did something so egregious that it became a matter of safety or legality,” countered Opal. “So, another therapist agreed with this first therapist and they went back and forth for a good twenty minutes complaining about Violet and what a dictator she was.”

  “I don’t know if that helps us,” mused Essie. “We already knew Violet was strict and that the employees didn’t really like her.”

  “That’s what I found out,” said Opal with a shrug. “Take it or leave it.” She turned her nose up slightly and inhaled deeply.

  “What did you find out, Essie?” asked Marjorie. With a gleam in her eye, Essie proceeded to regale her tablemates with the new found knowledge that she had gleaned about Violet and the Board of Directors from Bev the beautician.

  “I bet Fay can find out more about Violet and the Board of Directors and how she got her job,” suggested Opal. “What about it, Fay?”

  Fay, who was starting to drift off, quickly perked up when she heard her name called.

  “Fay, can you put those computer skills of yours to use and find out how Violet got her job here? Seems there was a battle among the members of the Board of Directors about her,” said Essie.

  Fay smiled at Essie and then nodded slowly up and down, her eyes turning back to the kitchen.

  “Does she understand?” Essie asked Opal and Marjorie.

  “Who knows?” said Opal. “Just let the information sink in. Then just watch and wait. If she’s going to do something, she’ll do it.”

  “Great,” noted Essie. “I hope she does something quickly.”

  “Be patient, Essie,” said Marjorie calmly. “It’s not like we have to rush to meet a deadline.�
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  “You mean like if that Ben Jericho should arrive on the scene,” suggested Essie.

  “Right,” said Opal. “At least that hasn’t happened.”

  “But it has!” said Essie. “He arrived this afternoon! I saw him at the front desk!”

  “Oh dear,” shrieked Marjorie. “What did you do?”

  “I watched as Phyllis managed to talk him into leaving,” she said.

  “Marvelous!” cried Opal. “That Phyllis is fantastic!”

  “Not so fast,” said Essie, holding up her palms. “The man returned shortly afterwards and demanded to see the Director.”

  “Violet!” cried Marjorie.

  “The one and only,” said Essie. “I had barely returned to my room, thinking I was safe when Phyllis called and told me Violet wanted me in the lobby immediately.”

  “Ooops!” said Marjorie, with a grimace.

  Essie related to her friends the events that followed the confrontation between Violet, Ben Jericho, and herself. She also informed them that after talking to Jericho face-to-face she had changed her opinion of him and now believed that he was genuine and truly was trying to track down his biological father. “Although he didn’t tell me that,” she added. “Of course, I didn’t tell him where Bob was either—or even hint that I knew where he was. I think that’s just being cautious. And, of course, it’s none of my business. It’s totally up to Bob whether or not he wants to meet this Ben Jericho.”

  “If he comes out of the coma,” suggested Opal.

  “When,” Marjorie added firmly.

  “So, Essie,” said Opal, “what’s our next step?”

  “More investigation,” replied Essie. “Fay will look into the situation with Violet and the Board of Directors—and if she doesn’t, we can try to find out ourselves on that computer. I will try to find out how Bob is doing . . .”

  “Essie, look!” Marjorie whispered, pulling on Essie’s sleeve. “Rose Lane just arrived at her table. She must have returned from visiting Bob at the hospital. She’s talking to Evelyn now. Hazel is listening, but Evelyn is clasping Rose’s hands.”