by D. C. Brod
Jack had transformed from an attractive stranger to an attractive man with an abundance of interests. He’d skied the Alps, scuba dived in the Bahamas and worked as a forest ranger one summer in Wyoming.
When prompted, he talked about his sister who, as it turned out, was about seven years older.
“She just about raised me,” he said around a bite of his sandwich. He finished chewing and swallowed. “Our father left when I was a little kid and our mother worked two jobs.”
“Was it just the two of you?”
“Yeah. Just us.” He dabbed a crumb on the table and flicked it off onto the edge of his plate.
“Is your mother still alive?”
“No,” he said, sighing. “She died when I was in college—Erika made sure I finished—and since then it’s been just the two of us.”
“But Erika has a daughter. Was there a husband?”
“Briefly. He died in a car accident. Lily—her daughter—she’s great.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
He smiled as he studied me for a moment. “So is yours.”
“Yeah, I guess there are worse birds to be named after.” I considered this as I chewed on a fry. “Like Grackle. Or Skua.”
He chuckled, then became serious. “So you moved out here from Oak Park so you could be with your mother.”
“Something like that,” I said. “Actually, it was a compromise. She didn’t want to move to Oak Park, and I didn’t want to move to her suburb. We found Dryden and liked it, and because it was in Fowler, this is where we both landed.”
“She’s lucky to have you.”
I laughed. “There are days you couldn’t tell her that.” I described our bout with the cigarettes.
“She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?”
I just shook my head.
“I’d like to meet her.”
I gave him a look.
“No, really. I think old people are great.”
“That’s because you don’t have one.”
“Seriously,” he said, laughing. “I used to play guitar and sing—you know, when we’re young, we all think we can play guitar and sing. I used to do gigs at nursing homes.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, I never rose above the nursing home venue.”
I nodded. “That’s telling you something, I think.”
We both laughed a little over that and then he said, “But, you know, I liked to joke around with them. Sometimes brought pizza. They liked me. I think they just tolerated my singing, but they liked me.”
I bet they did. He was handsome, personable and took time out for older people. What wasn’t there to like? “Well, you’re welcome to meet her, but I warn you, she hasn’t got a cuddly side, and if you buy her pizza it damn well better have something on it besides cheese.”
It must have been the scotch—or maybe the second one. But by the end of the evening he’d convinced me that we should stop by my mother’s tomorrow at lunch and bring a pizza.
I insisted on paying part of the bill, not wanting to be indebted to him for the price of a sandwich and a couple of scotches. He didn’t argue, and when he walked me home he gave me a kiss on the cheek before leaving me at my door without so much as a half-assed effort to get past that door. But he did promise to meet me at Dryden at eleven thirty the next morning, so I guess he wasn’t completely turned off to the idea of being with me. Or at least he was willing to tolerate me in order to meet my mother.
When I got home, my phone was ringing and I saw my mother’s phone number on the caller ID. I glanced at the kitchen clock. Nine fifteen. Not a good time for her.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, dear,” she said.
“Mom?”
“Robbie must have loved me, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure he did, Mom.”
And then: “Why haven’t you come home yet? I made your favorite for dinner. Steak tartar.” I had no idea where that came from. Raw meat? Then she started fretting over not being able to coddle an egg. She was nearly in tears. Then, out of nowhere, she said she was going to see if she could get a banana.
“Mom!” I said before she could hang up. I heard her hesitate. “It’s Robyn, Mother.”
A long pause, and then, “Oh.” Disappointment.
“Are you okay?”
“Well, I’m not sure.” Her voice had gotten smaller and much, much older.
“I’m out of bananas and the stores will be closing.” Her voice, clotted with dry tears, had become a whine. “I... I can’t remember where I parked the car.”
“You don’t drive, Mom.”
“What?”
“You don’t drive.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Her relief was so profound, I almost had to laugh.
“Do you think if I called the concierge they could get a banana for me?” she asked.
“You’re not in a hotel, Mom.”
A pause. “I’m not?”
“Look around your room. Those are your pictures on the wall.” I gave her a few moments. “Are you sitting in your brown chair?”
“Y-Yes.” More confused than panicky.
“Look next to you on the table. See the photo of you and me? You’re wearing a mini skirt.”
“Just a moment.”
I heard her set the receiver down. I pictured her slowly reaching for the thirty-five-year-old picture of the two of us. A few seconds later she uttered a soft, “Oh,” and then was back on the phone. “Oh, Robyn.”
This was the hardest. Her whining really grated at me. She couldn’t help her confusion—I knew that—but she’d perfected the whining years ago and it hadn’t improved with age. But I could deal with that; the anguish ripped me apart. “It’s okay, Mom.”
“No, it’s not.”
I heard the breath of her sigh and searched for a response that wouldn’t make her feel worse. But then her tone shifted as she said, “There was a man here today.”
“Who was that?” I figured it was Hedges, the cop, but wanted to know what she remembered.
“I can’t recall his name, but he was asking me about some woman.”
She seemed to be groping for a name, so I prompted her. “Was it Mary Waltner?”
“Why, yes.” Then, “How would you know?”
“I talked to him earlier.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Well, it’s horrible what happened. But I couldn’t tell him much.”
I was going to ask her what she did tell him, but then she said, “When will I see you again?” and I knew we’d moved on.
“I’ll be by tomorrow. Maybe with a surprise.”
“Oh, good,” she said without much feeling. “What time is it now?”
I told her. “And, Mom, if you still want a banana, there’s fruit out on the table in the lounge on the first floor.”
“Banana?” It was as though I’d said wombat. “ I don’t want a banana.”
“Bye, Mom.”
As I returned the phone to its cradle I thought about what the doctor had told me. How these episodes would become more and more frequent. This was the second this week. It helped if she knew she wasn’t alone. That was one reason Dryden was perfect. She had her own room, but she wasn’t alone. There were always people to talk to. If the residents had had enough of her, the staff was incredibly patient.
Once again, I felt the weight of the guilt for not welcoming her into my home—or into some new apartment. But I’d learn to live with that guilt, because I knew what a toll we’d take on each other’s sanity. I couldn’t be with her constantly, and she needed someone there all the time. And if there was any way I imagined myself pulling off a goat heist and extortion, I’d have done it. But there wasn’t.
It would have to be Willoway.
CHAPTER 13
At ten the next morning, I drove to Willoway. I’d thought about calling ahead and telling Jane Goodwin that I was on my way, but decided to just drop in, perhaps thinking that I might spot the bucket of gold at the end of th
e rainbow on my way there.
The day had turned sunny and hot but the humidity was low. I never expect days like this in August, so I try to appreciate them when they’re here.
Willoway was set off a main thoroughfare, with a long drive that passed beneath mature trees and led to a grassy area with benches and a few tables, with parking off to one side. I told myself it was pretty— and it was—and the landscaping was well kept. The drive itself was about three quarters of a mile long and in the few times I’d been to Willoway, I’d never seen anyone beyond the lawn area. Even so, I didn’t think much of it when I saw the figure coming toward me, walking along the side of the road. But she was tottering a bit, and as I slowed down I saw she was wearing a blue robe, loosely belted, and white vinyl mules. She was shuffling so that her left shoe had slipped and her bare heel came down on the gritty roadside with every step. I stopped my car and lowered the window. She peered in at me, but didn’t speak.
“Are you okay?” I asked, knowing that she wasn’t. She didn’t respond.
“Can I give you a ride?” I noticed the plastic band on her right wrist.
She squinted at me, shifting from foot to foot.
I turned off my car and got out, approaching her slowly, without any abrupt moves, much like I’d have approached Blood if I’d had the nerve.
She was a tiny, bent woman, coming barely up to my chin, and her white hair was as pure a shade as I’d ever seen. Her large, blue eyes showed neither fear nor comprehension.
“Ethel?” she said.
“No. I’m Robyn.”
Her mouth puckered and her brows pulled together. “I’m waiting for my sister.”
I glanced around, looking for help, but we were alone on the road.
“She’s waiting for you back at the house.”
“Oh?”
“I’m supposed to give you a ride.”
Now she seemed troubled. “They didn’t tell me that.”
“It’s just a short way.”
She looked at my car, then at me, trying to focus. “Did Ethel send you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh.” She looked around as though she, too, was hoping for divine intervention, then said, “Well, then all right.”
She let me help her around to the passenger side, slipping out of one shoe along the way. I picked it up and tossed it on the floor. A stale, sour smell rose off her. I got her settled into the seat without much fuss. She was so tiny I could practically have lifted her. I noticed her right leg had a dark purple bruise on it and her toenails were curled, yellow claws. I took the opportunity to glance at her bracelet and saw that her name was Beatrice Hendrie.
A minute later I pulled up in front of Willoway’s entrance and helped her out of the car. Once inside, I figured I’d hand her over to the receptionist at the sleek, curved desk, but that proved impossible, seeing as there was no one at the desk. In fact, the lobby, with its sparse furniture, was empty, and although I heard voices coming from one or more of the three halls branching off from the reception area, I didn’t want to go in search of anyone, lest Beatrice decide to wander off again. That was when I noticed the little bell sitting on the reception desk. Perhaps the receptionist also took to wandering. I situated Beatrice in one of two contemporary chairs, and then I tapped the bell and listened to the ding echoing throughout the reception area. Beatrice was fiddling with the ends of her robe tie. She gave me a pleasant smile.
I gave the bell a swat this time and then another, and from an office around the corner, I heard a gravely voiced woman say, “Hold your horses. I’m coming.”
She rounded the corner holding a large mug of coffee between her hands. I thought she was surprised to see me, but then realized it was just her penciled in eyebrows, arched like twin gateways to the west. The eyes beneath the brows were rather harsh and, right now, annoyed.
“Can I help you?”
“Well, I’m hoping you can help this lady who I found wandering down by Bolton Road.” I stepped aside so she could see Beatrice.
Her jaw dropped an inch, but she snapped it shut quickly. “Beatrice, have you been wandering again?”
After setting down her coffee, she went over to the old woman, who was looking up at her with those large, blue eyes, and took her hands. “Are you all right, hon?”
Beatrice didn’t respond, but the woman didn’t act as though she expected her to. “You sit right here, hon, I’ll give Mrs. Goodwin a call.”
As she hurried behind the desk, she looked up at me and said, “Thank you so much for bringing her back. This is not at all like her.”
She picked up the phone, then stopped. “Who were you here to see?”
I blinked. And then I said, “No one.”
She smiled. “Well, thank you for bringing our Beatrice back.”
I nodded, and as I turned toward the door, I heard her say into the phone, “Jane, it’s Beatrice.” A pause and then, “... Yes.”
I watched over my shoulder as she steered the old woman around a corner, and then I left.
It took me the length of the driveway to make my decision. And before I pulled onto Bolton, I punched in my accountant’s number on my cell phone.
“Yeah, Robyn,” Mick said.
“We need to talk.” I swallowed. “Shall I come to your office?”
“No, I’m at the gym. You want to meet for lunch?”
“No.” I was afraid I’d come to regret this decision, and didn’t want it to ruin food for me for the rest of my life. Or for ten to fifteen years.
“Okay,” he said, “how about my place?” He recited his address and said, “Eleven thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
After I disconnected from Mick, I called Jack—my mother’s pizza party would have to wait—and left a message on his voicemail. I hoped he heard that message before marching into Dryden armed only with a guitar and a pepperoni pizza.
When I got home, I parked in my usual space behind the building and was climbing the steps to the rear entrance when I noticed a man sitting on one of the chairs wedged onto my tiny back porch. As I paused in midstep, he pulled a leather badge holder from his jacket pocket.
“Robyn Guthrie?”
I nodded.
He let the badge holder drop open. “Detective Richard Hedges, Fowler PD. We spoke earlier.”
“Uh, yes.” I hoped he didn’t notice the hesitation; I hoped it had all been in my head. I knew he was here about Mary Waltner, but I couldn’t help but think that “future extortionist” was stamped on my forehead.
When I’d climbed up onto the porch, I scrutinized the badge—it looked real, but fake badges were supposed to look real.
As he pocketed it, I could hear Bix scratching at the back door.
Hedges nodded in that direction. “Someone’s trying to dig his way out.”
I smiled. “Yeah, that’d be Bix. We’d better go inside. He doesn’t like to miss anything.”
As I unlocked the door, Hedges said, “I saw your mother yesterday.”
“That’s what she told me.”
He stepped into the narrow entryway leading to my kitchen. “What’d she say?”
Bix could barely contain his pleasure in seeing me—it had been almost an hour. Everyone needs a dog.
“Mostly, she was confused.”
He nodded as though that fit.
I invited him into the living room and offered him some coffee, which he accepted, but asked for milk. “All I’ve got is fat free,” I told him. Skim milk made for gray coffee.
He made a face. “Skip it then.”
Then he bent down to let Bix sniff his hand and gave the dog a little scratch behind the ears. Bix doesn’t care to have his ears fondled, but he tolerates it pretty well.
Hedges was not as I’d imagined him, which was middle-aged, with some hard years on him. In reality, he was tall and slender with long fingers and a sharp nose. I guessed he was a few years younger than me. He moved slowly, but his eyes were quick and aler
t.
I poured myself a cup left over from the morning pot and put it into the microwave to spin for a minute.
“I don’t think your mother was being completely forthcoming with me.”
I almost laughed. Instead, I turned to him and said, “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it’s her... forgetfulness.”
“Dementia,” I said. “That’s what it is. She comes and goes. Sometimes she’s clear and focused. Other times, not so much. She’s much better at remembering the past than the present.”
The microwave dinged, and I removed the mug and took a tentative sip. It wasn’t hot yet, but was good enough for my purposes. I needed something to do with my hands besides wringing them.
We walked into the living room and he settled into my purple chair. I sat on the edge of the couch.
He wore a taupe-colored sports jacket over khaki slacks and a white shirt knotted with a blue print tie, which he’d pulled down about an inch, and he sat forward with his elbows propped on his knees, holding a small, black spiral notebook.
Frowning, Hedges said, “Is she ever...” He paused and pressed his lips together to form a thin line.
I waited.
“Is she ever intentionally... uh, vague?”
I thought about how my mother had become more and more difficult to get an answer out of. I knew that part of it was her mental condition, perhaps coupled with the questions I’d been asking. But I also believed that she’d become more and more evasive—perhaps a latent ability—the more pointed my questions had become.
“You mean evasive?” I suggested.
With a nod, he said, “I guess that’s more like it.”
“She can be. When it suits her purposes.”
He nodded as though confirming a suspicion.
“If you’re going to talk to her again,” I said, “it might help if I were there. I can sometimes keep her on track.”
He tapped his pencil against the chair’s arm, frowning as though he didn’t think much of my offer.
“Can you tell me anything about Mary Waltner?” I asked.
He removed a photo from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.
