Bingoed

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Miss Essie,” said Jericho finally, “I don’t suppose Mr. Weiderley ever told you about me, did he?”

  “No, Mr. Jericho, I believe I can safely say that he didn’t.” She didn’t add that she, however, had rummaged through Bob’s apartment and discovered the letter that he had sent to Bob claiming to be his long lost illegitimate son. “Although . . . —“ She stopped herself.

  “Yes, Miss Essie?” he asked.

  “Although I was curious about you and your business when you gave me your card,” she said. “I even asked my doctor if she had heard of you—I mean if she’d heard of your company.”

  “And had she?”

  “It appears that your Medilogi—whatever it is, is quite well-known among physicians.”

  “That’s gratifying to hear. I hope your doctor didn’t have anything bad to say about us.”

  “No,” said Essie. “Quite the contrary. She sang your praises and said you were sort of the—now who was that man she compared you to? Oh, she said you were. . . I know—the Donald Trump of medical softeners.”

  “She probably meant software,” he corrected gently, “and—wow! No one has ever compared me to the Donald before.”

  “Does that mean that you own a lot of buildings, Mr. Jericho?” asked Essie.

  “My goodness, Miss Essie,” he said laughing, “here I thought I was interrogating you!”

  “You were, Mr. Jericho?”

  “You know, Miss Essie,” he said, “can I be frank?”

  “I really wish you would, Mr. Jericho,” answered Essie, “it might save us all a lot of time.”

  “It’s quite evident to me that you are one smart lady.”

  “I already know that,” she responded with a vocal shrug.

  “I think you know exactly where Bob Weiderley is, don’t you?”

  “Why do you say that?” she questioned. Now why, she wondered was he doubting her?

  “I can’t imagine you’d bother to investigate me and my company if you had absolutely no interest in this situation, which suggests to me that you know where Mr. Weiderley is—or at least you know something about his absence. You must have some strong reason for not wanting me to contact him.”

  “I already told you. I’m not at liberty to discuss Bob’s situation with you. I have no authority to do so. It’s not like Bob told me to communicate with you or to tell you where he is.”

  “Then you do know where he is?”

  “Fishing.”

  “No, where he really is,” said Jericho firmly.

  “Mr. Jericho,” replied Essie, “you’re a very charming and persuasive man, but I wouldn’t tell you where Bob Weiderley is—if I knew—and I don’t. So that’s all there is to it.” Essie crossed her fingers as she told this whopper of a lie to the man.

  “I only wish you could give me a clue—or a little hope, Miss Essie,” he pleaded. “Truly, I have nowhere else to turn. I’m not trying to hurt Mr. Weiderley. I wish you could believe me.”

  “I wish I could too, Mr. Jericho,” she said. “Maybe he’ll return from his fishing trip—soon. You never know.”

  “You do know something!” he cried. “Did he call you? Did he call someone there? Is he scheduled to return to Happy Haven? Can’t you please give me a hint? It’s not as if I can do anything to him.”

  “I don’t know that, Mr. Jericho.”

  “You have my sworn word, Miss Essie.”

  “And what are you swearing on, Mr. Jericho?” she asked.

  “What do you want me to swear on?” he asked.

  “How about your father’s life?” she sputtered out.

  Jericho was silent for a few moments, and then he spoke quietly.

  “Miss Essie,” he said slowly, “I don’t know . . . exactly what you’re trying to say . . . but I’m going to guess . . . hope . . . that you’re sending me a message of encouragement. I’m going to hope that you’re suggesting that I return to Happy Haven and try to speak with Bob.”

  “You can read into my remarks what you will, Mr. Jericho,” she replied.

  “I don’t know what you know, or think you know, Miss Essie,” he said carefully, “but whatever it is, there is nothing about my intentions that Mr. Weiderley needs to fear. Please believe me.”

  “On your father’s life, Mr. Jericho,” she repeated.

  “On my father’s life,” he agreed. “Good night, Miss Essie. I’m sorry I kept you up so late. Sleep tight. Good bye.”

  “Good bye, Mr. Jericho,” she responded and hung up the phone.

  Very interesting, she said to herself. She had learned more about the mysterious Ben Jericho and the company for which he worked. The man had not—and apparently would not—reveal to her his supposed biological relationship with Bob Weiderley—if there was such a relationship. There was no way for her to know if Bob was actually this man’s father until and unless she was able to ask Bob himself. Bob obviously had read Jericho’s letter and it probably had upset him. What Essie didn’t know is if Bob was upset because the information in Jericho’s letter was true and Bob was shocked to find out he had a son or because it was false and he was petrified that Jericho was trying to scam him. Essie’s feelings in the matter vacillated back and forth. Even so, it didn’t matter how Essie felt because it was up to Bob to decide whether or not he wished to contact or be contacted by Ben Jericho—and Bob could hardly do that from his hospital bed. She—and Jericho—would just have to wait until Bob returned from his—fishing trip. She had hinted that Bob might be returning soon and that was as far as she could ethically go, she believed. The next move was Jericho’s.

  Essie shimmied out of her deep, soft chair and wheeled her walker into her bedroom. Slipping out of her robe which she deposited across the top of her trusty vehicle (in case she had to make a late night trip to the potty, she didn’t want to freeze) and slipping off her slippers beside her bed, she crawled under her sheets and her toasty warm, peach-colored duvet. As she had a clean conscience (always a wonderful soporific), she was sound asleep in just a few moments.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “In a dream you are never eighty.”

  —Anne Sexton

  Essie’s dreams of skipping through a flower-covered botanical garden without the help of a walker were interrupted with a start when she heard the sound of her apartment door creaking open. Essie sat up in bed, thinking to herself that it was probably Sue Barber come to finish her off since she hadn’t been able to smash her that afternoon with the tree limb. Or maybe it was Violet, who had seen her burglarize her office and discover the incriminating newspaper clippings that revealed her multiple identities, now arriving in the dead of night to smother her with a pillow. Oh, why didn’t she prop a chair under her front door knob like they did in the movies to keep the gangsters out? Now she had just seconds to live before the unknown murderer ended her fragile life with ease. She cringed under the covers, shaking, trying to think how she could defend herself. Was there anything here in her bedroom she could use to knock the culprit on the noggin as she came near? What could she use? Her lamp? Too big and plugged in? She had a pile of books stacked on her bedside but they were all fairly small and would probably only make a small knot on the fiend’s forehead. Jumping Jezebels! What could she do?

  As she shook in contemplation, Fay’s head poked around her bedroom door.

  “Fay!” whispered Essie in relief when she saw that her quiet friend was the one guilty of breaking and entering and not Sue Barber or Violet Hendrickson. “Why are you roaming around in the middle of the night?”

  Fay wheeled her wheelchair carefully into Essie’s bedroom, maneuvering skillfully around the door jamb and closer to Essie’s bed. She pointed at her wristwatch.

  Essie glanced over at her bedside alarm clock.

  “Oh,” she said, deflated, “it’s only 10:30. I guess it’s not that late. But still, Fay! Why didn’t you knock? You scared me to death!”

  Fay hung her head and looked sad. Finally, she squeaked, “Sor
ry.” Then she reached inside a side pocket of her wheelchair and brought out some more computer print-outs.

  “More computer research, Fay!” cried Essie. “Couldn’t this have waited until morning?”

  Fay pointed at the pages which Essie really couldn’t see well in the faint moonlight streaming into her bedroom. She reached over and turned on her bedside table lamp. A blast of light filled the room. Both women squinted. Essie reached out and took the small pile of paper as Fay remained in her wheelchair watching.

  “New clues?” she asked Fay. “Is this about Violet or Sue? Or maybe Ben Jericho? You’ve been doing great finding all this information, Fay. I had no idea you knew so much about computers.”

  “Librarian,” said Fay cautiously and with difficulty.

  “You were a librarian?” asked Essie.

  Fay nodded. “Son,” she added.

  “Your son is a librarian? Or he taught you to use computers? Oh, well, I guess it doesn’t matter.” She grabbed her glasses from her table and slipped them over her ears so she could read the small print on the pages.

  “Hmm,” she muttered as she perused the first page. “This isn’t about . . . oh my, Fay! This is about John! My husband! How did you . . .? Oh, look, I’ve never read this before. It’s a tribute someone wrote about him after he . . . died. I thought I’d seen everything that was written about him; people sent me these articles in newspapers, but this is . . . this is lovely. Oh, Fay. Where did you find this?” She continued reading, her eyes filling with tears. Fay watched and waited. Eventually, Essie looked up. She grabbed a tissue from the dispenser on her nightstand and wiped her eyes. “Thank you for bringing me this.”

  Fay pointed to the second page. Essie glanced down and began to read. This page was also a tribute, but it was in honor of Opal’s husband, Fred. Essie finished reading and smiled at Fay. Fay handed her another page and—not unexpectedly, another tribute, this time to Marjorie’s deceased spouse, Albert. With one page left, Essie reached out and took the page. This tribute, so similar to those of the other three husbands was devoted to the memory of Fay’s Michael. Essie read this one out loud and with great tenderness. As she read, she watched Fay who listened and smiled—and eventually sobbed as Essie described the wonderful qualities of a man whom Fay had obviously adored—but whom she obviously was unable to discuss herself. When Essie had finished reading the tribute to Fay’s husband, Fay grabbed Essie’s hands, squeezed them, and quickly brought them to her lips and kissed them sweetly.

  “Thank you, Fay,” whispered Essie. “Thank you for sharing these eulogies with me. It makes me feel so much closer to you and Marjorie and Opal, knowing more about all of your husbands. It’s a wonderful bond between us. Thank you for bringing these to me. Should we share them with Marjorie and Opal?”

  Fay nodded and reached out and hugged Essie. Then smiling, she wheeled her chair backwards and around the bedroom door jamb and out of Essie’s apartment. Essie could hear the front door latch shut. She had thought of Fay as a strange little woman, sort of a tagalong to their group. She hardly spoke; she slept more often than not, yet she had amazing skills when she put her mind to it. The information she had extracted from her computer searches were proof of that. Now, this middle of the night visit was another indication of Fay’s unique and strange persona. Essie didn’t know quite what to make of Fay—maybe she would never know. But she did know that Fay was a good friend and that she would not ever again take her for granted.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “It’s sad to grow old, but nice to ripen.”

  —Brigitte Bardot

  Essie made it through the rest of the night with no further break-ins. No one attempted to murder her. She also made it through breakfast without being poisoned—at least she had so far. Although, the blueberry pancakes did have a strange wood-like quality. True to her word, Fay brought the tributes to their husbands that she had found on the computer and shared them with Opal and Marjorie. Opal had seen the one for Fred before in her local newspaper, but for Marjorie the article on her husband Albert was totally new and all four women shared her joy in reading someone else’s homage to the most important person in Marjorie’s life. In truth, thought Essie, this was certainly one of the most wonderful breakfasts the four women had shared. All three of the walker users assisted the wheelchair user—Fay—in exiting the dining hall where they congregated in the lobby chatting and socializing with other residents. As they stood there, someone said:

  “Look, it’s Bob Weiderley!”

  And everyone in the lobby looked towards the main entrance door to discover Bob Weiderley, looking a bit paler than usual, entering the building. He was accompanied by Evelyn Cudahy at his side, assisting him. As he walked through the door, leaning on his cane, a cheer went up from the entire group of residents gathered in the lobby. Bob smiled and looked at Evelyn who also smiled. Bob raised his hand and acknowledged his fellow Happy Haveners. Essie, Marjorie, and Opal stood to the side in rapt attention as Bob moved into the lobby.

  “Sit down, Bob!” yelled one of his Canasta buddies. All of the residents shouted their agreement to this request and Bob cautiously limped over to the centrally located sofa and eased himself down into the cushions, still holding firmly to his cane. Evelyn sat beside him, continuing to clutch his sleeve.

  “I didn’t expect such a great welcome back!” said Bob, smiling pointedly all around to everyone.

  The noise of all the cheering seemed to bring out more people to see what all the noise was. Staff members came in from the dining hall and from out of the hallways. Phyllis stood at the front counter, beaming at the action. Violet Hendrickson and Sue Barber appeared from the office wing and stood at its entrance watching Bob’s homecoming. Hazel Brubaker and Rose Lane watched from near the elevator.

  “Bob,” yelled another man standing behind him, “whatever happened at Bingo? You really hit the floor! Too much excitement in winning that big prize, eh?”

  “Must have been,” agreed Bob, smiling. Essie wondered at his response. Was this a politically expedient remark? Was Bob being polite or did he suspect someone had poisoned him? Or was he really excited at winning Bingo? Or was he excited or nervous about something else? Like a scam artist or possible illegitimate son? Would Bob open up about what happened to him now here in the lobby in front of everyone or would they have to wait until later—if at all—to find out the truth?

  “Are you feeling better, Bob?” asked a tiny lady to Bob’s right.

  “Better than ever,” noted Bob.

  “Do they know what caused you to collapse?” asked another.

  “They . . . uh . . . found a substance in my bloodstream,” replied Bob, tentatively.

  “Not marijuana?” suggested a big, round man, laughing.

  “Naw,” laughed Bob.

  “Was it poison?” asked Essie, suddenly. She felt foolish immediately for jumping the gun—and possibly revealing her cards too soon. She surely didn’t want to upset Bob just when he had come back.

  “Naw,” laughed Bob. “At least not poison for most people.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Essie. She glanced over to Sue Barber to see if she was indicating any concern over the topic of this discussion. Sue looked concerned but not particularly worried.

  “Actually, it’s rather embarrassing,” continued Bob.

  “All the more reason to tell us,” egged the fat man.

  Bob chuckled. “I suppose you people will never leave me alone until I tell you, will you?

  “Right you are, Steve-arino!” said another man. Essie thought the men at Happy Haven were certainly enjoying Bob’s discomfort. The women seemed more concerned about his health and welfare.

  “I suppose before I explain, I should—that is, we should make another announcement,” said Bob looking at Evelyn. She nodded at him, blushing. The crowd had now grown to include, in Essie’s estimation, practically everyone who lived and worked at Happy Haven. Who was manning the wheel? she wondered, if ther
e was a wheel.

  “Two weeks ago,” said Bob, “I asked Miss Cudahy here if she would honor me by becoming my wife. I was astounded when she agreed.”

  “No wonder you collapsed!” said fat man. “I would too if I could sweet talk a babe like Evelyn into marrying me!”

  “We were married a week and a half ago at city hall,” continued Bob. Gasps and applause were the response to this announcement. Bob took Evelyn’s hand and squeezed it. They looked at each other with obvious joy. Hazel and Rose beamed from beside the elevator with nary a sign of a shake from Hazel or a tear from Rose.

  Phyllis, at the front desk, grabbed her intercom microphone and said: “Residents, I have a wonderful announcement! Bob Weiderley and Evelyn Cudahy are married!”

  “Phyllis,” said a woman standing near the front desk. “Who’s listening to their intercom? Everyone in the building is standing here in the lobby.” Everyone laughed.

  “Okay, okay,” continued another man, “so you two got married. Is that why you collapsed? You said a strange substance was in your bloodstream?”

  “It’s rather embarrassing,” noted Bob, clutching his cane and looking at the floor and then at his wife. “I am 86 and well, I’ve never been married before. I wasn’t exactly certain how . . . if . . . —”

  “I told him not to worry,” said Evelyn sweetly, staring into Bob’s eyes. “I told him nothing mattered except that we loved each other.”

  Boy, thought Essie to herself, if Evelyn married Bob for his money, she sure isn’t acting like it. It looks like she really cares about the guy. Of course, you never know.

  “Anyway,” continued Bob, “I decided before the wedding to try to insure that our honeymoon which was actually just our wedding night in my apartment here . . .”

  Must have been the time Bev the beautician had seen the couple head into the elevator together all gooey-eyed, surmised Essie.