Fallon marched across the kitchen and began to pull the coffeemaker from the dishwasher. Suddenly he had second thoughts. Somehow, the image of Howard sitting in one of his chairs was truly irritating. It was blatantly irrational, and he knew it. Hell, maybe Howard needed the chair. He sure as hell was headed for some pretty heavy alimony. But so are you, Fallon thought. You’ll probably end up paying a good chunk of his, through Trish. Then what do you do? Go out and snatch somebody else’s wife, so he can pay yours? Is that the end of the mating ritual? Monthly musical checks, going on and on in endless circles? He laughed out loud. The hell with it. Let Howard have the chairs. Let him screw Trisha in one of the chairs. In all of them, for chrissake. Howard wasn’t the enemy. He suddenly realized he had been denigrating Howard—the dentist—to soothe his own bruised ego; that he’d have equal contempt for the man if he was a bloody astronaut. Howard was just a smarmy little prick who had chased after another man’s wife, but he hadn’t taken anything that wasn’t offered. It was Trisha who had promised and professed faithfulness, not Howard. Howard was just another libidinous asshole, who had wanted to bed a married woman. And he had, and would continue to. Fallon offered the absent Howard a slight nod of his head. Good luck, Howard, he thought. Now you sit and wonder whose bed she’ll climb into next.
Feeling satisfyingly smug, Fallon opened the cabinet that held the coffee. As he started to reach for the canister, his hand froze. “Shit,” he muttered, as he stared at the inside of the cabinet door. There, facing him like some evil specter, was the monthly calendar Trisha always put up to remind him of things he was supposed to do. The box for Sunday, July 6, carried the note Visit mother, just as it had for the first and third Sunday of every month for the past five years. Trisha had even circled and underlined the entry, and he immediately remembered why. They had agreed he would talk to his mother, tell her about his problems at work; explain that he might soon be unable to pay her nursing home bills—that she might be forced to dip into her own resources to cover them.
Fallon lowered his head, shook it wearily. He had forgotten the regular semimonthly visit and especially the importance of this particular one. But he also knew if he called, said he couldn’t make it, he’d spend an hour on the phone playing out a guilt trip he didn’t need. He let out a long breath. He could stop on the way to the stadium and get it over with. Just suck it up and do it. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”
2
“THE RESIDENCE AT WILLOW RUN” WAS SITUATED ON A gentle hillside in the Westchester town of Rye, a rambling, single-story structure composed of numerous wings, each surrounded by ancient weeping willow trees that Fallon had always thought appropriate. Most of the rooms faced the distant water, providing the aging inhabitants with a slightly obscured, yet supposedly uplifting, view of the oil tankers that steadily plied and polluted Long Island Sound. It wasn’t a nursing home in the true sense. Rather, it was an Assisted Care Facility—to Fallon a mind-boggling term for a building that housed those who had been abandoned to someone else’s care. But at least the majority of the elderly men and women who lived here were still capable of providing somewhat for themselves, and each had a small studio apartment complete with a tiny kitchen, although most ate their meals in a bright, sunny common dining room.
Fallon parked his car in the visitors’ area, also encased in drooping willow boughs, and reluctantly made his way toward the grandly columned front entrance. Above, the sky was a cloudless, electric blue and the sun beat relentlessly on the macadam walkway, yet Fallon put on the blue blazer he had instinctively grabbed from his closet, even though it didn’t quite work with his peach polo shirt and khaki trousers. Several years ago he had visited his mother sans jacket and had been told he had embarrassed her by his casual attire.
As he approached the entrance, his eyes fell on three elderly men seated nearby. Two were perched on a bench, identical aluminum walkers standing before them. The third sat beside them in a wheelchair—his frail lower body covered by a blanket, despite the July heat. The men weren’t speaking. They just stared out at arriving guests, and Fallon wondered if they were waiting for relatives or just sitting there, envious of those who were.
A helluva way to finish out your life, Fallon thought, suddenly hit with a consuming sense of his own mortality, and he wondered if that was what lay in store for him as well—sitting outside some goddamned nursing home, waiting for death to pay a call. His situation at work rushed at him—the possibility of a forced retirement. Then the old cliché: Retire and die. He had never thought of ending his life this way, but now he did, and he quickly shook the image away and hurried toward the entrance.
Just beyond the front door was a large, sprawling area with a massive fireplace and an abundance of well-appointed chairs and sofas, available to the inmates—Fallon’s word—and their guests, should they wish to escape the cramped confines of individual rooms. Fallon made his way across the carpeted floor toward a reception desk at the far end. Ten feet from his destination he skidded to a halt, as an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair flew by with the blast of a bicycle horn. Fallon watched the old man turn into a long hall, wisps of white hair flowing out behind him. He had never seen an eighty-year-old man, with or without a wheelchair, move at such speed, and when he turned back to the reception desk a look of utter amazement must have marked his face.
The young woman behind the desk—one he had not seen before—broke into a grin. She was slender and blond, and she reminded Fallon of his daughter—yet another younger version of what his wife, Trisha, had once been. He pushed the thought away as he reached the desk.
“Sorry,” the young woman said, fighting off a laugh. “I think Mr. Rabinowitz is running the Indianapolis Five hundred today. He used to be an automobile dealer, and he keeps souping up his wheelchair when nobody’s looking.” She covered her pouty lips to conceal a giggle.
“Who’s he racing?” Fallon asked.
The woman, who wore a name tag identifying her as Rita, glanced to her left and raised her chin. Moving toward them with the aid of an aluminum walker—a look of grim determination set in a well-lined face—was another old man.
“That’s the other half of the Indianapolis Five hundred?” Fallon asked.
Rita giggled openly now. “That’s what they call it,” she said. She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “We call it the Tortoise and the Hare.”
The second old man, also an octogenarian by his looks, had reached the desk huffing and wheezing. He appeared close to collapse.
“Rabinowitz cheated again,” he gasped. “Sonofabitch.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Marino, you’ll catch him,” Rita said.
Fallon stared after the second old man, listening to the plop, shuffle, plop of his walker as it picked up speed. He turned back to the young woman, stunned by her encouragement. The Residence must be suffering a bed shortage, he decided.
Fallon blew out a long breath. “I’m here to see my mother, Kitty Fallon,” he said.
Rita flashed a wide, friendly smile, consulted a list, then smiled again. “She’s in physical therapy right now, Mr. Fallon,” she said.
Probably pulled a hamstring doing the pole vault, Fallon thought. “Do you know when she’ll be finished?” he asked.
“Oh, fifteen, twenty minutes. If you’ll wait in the sitting room we’ll tell her you’re here. Someone will bring her out as soon as she’s finished.”
Fallon thanked the young woman, checked in both directions for traffic, then headed back across the room.
The sitting room had become suddenly crowded and the only available seat was a small sofa directly across from three elderly women—each somewhere in her seventies—who sat together in a tight cluster of chairs. The first woman, who seemed prim and proper in a lace-laden blouse, and who sat rigidly straight in her chair, had the most strikingly blue-tinted hair Fallon had ever seen. The second was traditionally gray. She was plump and jolly-looking, her face so round she seemed to view the
world through a permanent squint. The third, who was staring blankly into space, apparently oblivious to the conversation of the others, had dyed her hair honey blond and had it cut into sharp, girlish bangs.
“It’s just terrible,” the blue-haired woman said as Fallon seated himself. “I don’t feel safe when I go there anymore.” She glanced at Fallon to see if he was eavesdropping, then, satisfied he was not, continued.
Fallon picked up a magazine, partially hid his face, and listened intently.
“Where, dear?” the chubby woman asked. “Where don’t you feel safe?”
The blue-haired woman stared at her, as if suddenly offended. “The A and P,” she said. “I just told you.” She rolled her eyes to show her irritation, then continued.
“Every time I go there all these hoodlums are lurking on every corner.” She gave her body a small twist, adjusting herself to a more comfortable position. “You’d think a woman could go to the A and ? without feeling threatened.”
The chubby woman nodded sad agreement. The words also seemed to jolt the third member of the trio out of her catatonic stare. She patted her honey-colored bangs and gave the blue-haired woman a cold stare.
“If you don’t feel safe, you shouldn’t go.” She offered up a cold grin. “Either that, or give those punks a good kick in their you-know-whats.”
She watched the other women gasp in horror, and let out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t be such sissies,” she snapped. “Anyway, this conversation is ridiculous. I’m going to see what we’re having for lunch.”
The blue-haired woman’s back stiffened and she momentarily glared at the other’s retreating back. Then she turned back to the chubby woman with a knowing smile. “You know she drinks, don’t you?” she asked sotto voce. She watched the chubby woman’s mouth form a large circle.
“Really?”
“It’s why she’s here,” the blue-haired woman said. She emphasized the point with a confirming nod. “I thought everyone knew about that.” She raised a closed fist, extended the thumb toward her mouth, and made a drinking gesture. “Every day. All day,” she said.
“Goodness,” the chubby woman said. “I never even suspected.”
“Vodka. You can’t smell it.” The blue-haired woman nodded again, then glanced past her friend’s shoulder. “Shh, she’s coming back,” she said.
The chubby woman turned, as did Fallon, and they all watched the third member of the trio make her way back across the room, each trying to detect any noticeable sway in her gait.
“We’re having Chicken Cordon Bleu for lunch,” the woman announced, patting her honey-colored bangs again as she reclaimed her chair.
The chubby woman’s face brightened, all talk of drinking suddenly forgotten. “That sounds delicious.” She hesitated. “What exactly is Chicken Cordon Bleu, anyway?” she asked.
“It’s Hawaiian,” the blue-haired woman said. “My husband and I always had it when we went there.” She straightened in her chair and offered up a superior smile. “The first time I had it was when we went to see Don Ho.” She threw another withering look at the woman with the honey-colored bangs, defying her to challenge the statement. But it was wasted. The woman was staring off into space again.
Satisfied, the blue-haired woman prattled on. “He’s won-der-ful. Just a mar-velous entertainer.” She paused, poignantly. “Except he’s just a bit … Well, you know.”
“No, I don’t,” the chubby woman said. She twisted in her chair, excited now; wanting more. “Tell me.”
The blue-haired woman leaned forward, prepared to offer a strict confidence, and Fallon found he had to resist doing so himself.
“Well,” the blue-haired woman said, pausing to draw the moment out. She lowered her voice close to a whisper. The lessening of sound brought the third member of the trio back from outer space. “His singing is just won-derful, as I said. But after he sings, he just goes through the audience, kissing all the women.” The blue-haired woman sat up; straightened her back again. “And on the mouth,” she added.
The chubby woman put a hand over her plump lips and giggled. The third woman blinked.
Blue-hair’s hands fluttered about the lace of her collar; her back became even straighter. Fully preened now, she continued. “Well, I certainly didn’t let him kiss me like that.”
“Lord, no!” the chubby woman said. She was nodding “yes,” as she spoke the words. “Not with your husband sitting right there.” She giggled again.
The blue-haired woman’s chin shot up. “That wasn’t the reason,” she snapped. Her birdlike eyes bored into her friend’s plump face. “I’m just not that kind of woman,” she added fiercely.
“Oh, of course not,” the chubby woman said. “I didn’t mean …” Her words were cut short as the blue-haired woman leaned forward again.
“And I, for one, don’t think he should do that sort of thing. Not with all this AIDS going around the way it is.”
The third woman’s head shot up as though someone had goosed her. “Don Ho has AIDS?” she barked.
“I didn’t say that,” the blue-haired woman snapped.
But her two friends were ignoring her now. They stared at each other, eyes wide; mouths open in horror. “I didn’t know that!” the chubby woman said. “I didn’t know Don Ho has AIDS!”
“I never said that!” The blue-haired woman was at the edge of her chair now, fighting to regain their attention. Her face was reddening quickly and Fallon feared a stroke was imminent.
“He shouldn’t kiss people if he has AIDS,” the third woman said. She patted her bangs again. “That’s disgusting.”
“I never said he has AIDS!”
The two women were still oblivious to their friend. They continued to stare at each other, mouths still agape in the horror of the moment.
“You should never kiss people on the mouth if you have AIDS,” the chubby woman said.
“I think it’s disgusting.” The third woman patted her hair furiously. “Somebody should do something about it.”
“I didn’t say Don Ho has AIDS,” the blue-haired woman said. Her voice was close to a shout, and her face was twisted with frustration.
The chubby woman finally turned back to her. “You didn’t know he had AIDS, dear? Well, thank God you didn’t kiss him.”
The blue-haired woman fell back into her chair and groaned. Fallon stared at her; wondered if she was dying; wondered if he’d be able to remember the CPR he had learned in the army. But she’ll never let you give her mouth-to-mouth, he thought.
“John? Why are you here today?”
Fallon’s head snapped around to the sound of his mother’s voice. She was the only person who called him John. The sound always sent a chill through him, although he had never understood why. He stood quickly and stepped toward her.
“It’s the first Sunday of the month, Mom,” he said. “I always come on the first and third Sundays.”
Kitty Fallon raised her chin. She was tall and thin and frail, with a hawklike face that seemed capable of looking inside you to ferret out any lies. Years ago she had been a second-grade school teacher, and Fallon—even as a child—had envisioned a classroom of seven-year-olds living in daily dread.
“Is it the first Sunday?” Kitty Fallon asked. “I didn’t realize.” She leaned forward, extending a powdered cheek, which Fallon dutifully kissed.
She knew, Fallon told himself. She knew he was due to visit today. She knew to the day and the hour. And if he hadn’t come she would have called him at home and asked why, the guilt-inducing sound of abandonment heavy in her voice.
“Do you want to sit here, or go to your room?” Fallon asked.
Kitty stared down at the three women, who had stopped discussing Don Ho’s imagined medical problems and were now listening intently. She glared at each, then turned back to her son. “Let’s sit out here. But somewhere else.” She turned abruptly and moved slowly away.
“But, Mom, there’s no other…” Fallon stopped as he followed her
progress. There were two empty chairs by the fireplace. They had miraculously appeared as if his mother had willed it. But then, they would, he thought. They wouldn’t dare not.
When they had settled in Kitty stared at him, as if she could see into his soul. “Where’s Trisha?” she asked.
Throughout the tedious drive, Fallon had debated telling his mother about the demise of his marriage. Now it seemed pointless not to. “Trisha and I have separated,” he said.
Kitty nodded as if it were no surprise. “Has she run off with someone else?”
Fallon was jolted by the question, then wondered why he should be. It was a logical assumption. People didn’t suddenly bolt from a marriage of twenty-four years unless their lives were a living hell, or unless they were running to someone else.
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it,” he said.
Kitty nodded. “I can’t say I didn’t expect it.”
Fallon was stunned again, uncertain exactly what his mother meant. Was she implying that Trisha was a tramp, from whom it should have been expected? Or did she mean that her daughter-in-law had simply come to her senses and abandoned her dolt of a son? He decided not to pursue it. And he definitely would not tell her about Howard.
“So, what are you doing about it?” Kitty asked when her son failed to respond. There was no sympathy in her voice or eyes. She simply stared at him, the schoolmistress checking to see if he’d done his homework.
“Nothing yet,” Fallon said. “It only happened yesterday.” He felt sudden, irrational guilt over his inaction, and he wondered why this woman had that effect on him. He was forty-nine years old, the veteran of two terrifying years in a misbegotten war. He was the father of two grown children, an executive in a cutthroat business, who ran a division of more than a hundred men and women. Why in hell could this old woman still intimidate him?
The Dinosaur Club Page 3
