“Have mercy!” Ruthann cries.
But Lucille doesn’t. “The police open up the closet door and this burglar’s body falls out, every single drop of blood drained right out of it …”
“Oh. Oh,” someone says faintly.
“And … one … finger … missing!” Lucille finishes in a hoarse, triumphant whisper as both elevators descend and open at once.
Daphne has only five more trays to deliver before she can go up to the staff lounge for her supper break. The first belongs to Miss Nettleson, the Dream Lady, who greets everyone with a recital of something she’s recently dreamed, or invented. Most of the employees, and the other patients, ignore her, or listen with the non-directive attention of classical analysts. Sometimes, one of the floor aides brings in her dream book and offers direct interpretations. Dreams about gold portend disappointment; blood means money, or shame; a wedding in which the dreamer is dressed as a bride foretells heavy sickness and death.
In her youth, Miss Nettleson had been a movie actress. She has a scrapbook of her career on the shelf of her narrow closet, and once she showed Daphne stills of herself in romantic poses with John Gilbert and Nils Asther. She was round-faced, dimpled, and appealing then, and although she worked steadily for years, she never became a star.
Daphne, who remembers a few of the Freudian dream symbols from last semester’s course in general psychology, keeps them to herself and remains neutral. She suspects that Miss Nettleson has not quite given up the wonderland of the movies, in which made-up stories protect you from real life the way dreams are supposed to protect your sleep. “Fish tonight!” Daphne announces, and Miss Nettleson says, as if they had already been in deep conversation that day, “And then I’m in a place like a meadow. There are sheep all around, but they have faces like people …”
Daphne sets the tray down, and plumps the pillows behind Miss Nettleson’s back. “And macaroni,” she says before tiptoeing out.
The next two trays go to room 225, which is shared by a pair of widowed sisters. Their place is mobbed with personal belongings, like a room in a college dorm. Family photos hang on every wall next to crayoned landscapes with the word Nana scrawled at the top of most of them, and the name Terri or Michelle at the bottom. There are throw pillows with elaborate needlepoint covers, and a small forest of plants on the windowsill, crowding one another for space and light. Each night table holds a Kleenex dispenser and an eyeglass case covered in needlepoint like the cushions, and there are two ceramic mugs that say Bank of America on the side. A four-footed cane and a metal walker keep each other company against one wall.
The first time Daphne saw Mrs. Feldman and Mrs. Bernstein, she thought they were twins. They were sitting close together on matching chairs, wearing similar flowered housecoats and holding hands. Gradually, over the weeks, Daphne began to notice the differences between them.
Mrs. Feldman is older, by several years. Her hair is much thinner than her sister’s, and the small hump of age just below the back of the neck is more pronounced. The widow’s hump. Mrs. Bernstein has had a stroke, and the side of her face Daphne didn’t see immediately is pulled down. It battles against the other side when it works to smile.
Both women are smiling as Daphne comes in with their trays. They’re watching television, a game show that sounds excessively loud and frantic. As in all the rooms, the set is bolted to a ceiling bracket and aimed downward at the viewers like a riot gun in a prison tower.
“Look who’s here, Pearl,” Mrs. Feldman says. “Hello, dear. Oh, supper! That looks nice.”
“Is it Betty?” Mrs. Bernstein asks, the sentence drawled and slow.
“Now, don’t be dopey,” her sister chides. “It’s that nice girl, bringing our supper. Thank you, dear. Aren’t you pretty today? Pearl, we’ll have to introduce her to Richard.”
“Is it still raining?” Mrs. Bernstein asks. Daphne has to lean forward to understand her. “He said it was raining.” Mrs. Bernstein points her useful hand at the television screen, where the emcee is counting money into a contestant’s outstretched palm. The whole audience counts along with him in a steady chant: “One hundred, two hundred, three hundred …”
“Now, Pearl, you know they tape that show. You know Jack Barry’s not live. Look out the window. Is it raining?”
“ … eight hundred, nine hundred, a thousand dollars!”
“It rained a little bit yesterday,” Daphne offers, but Mrs. Bernstein is examining her tray. “Oh, not fish,” she says, and sounds close to tears. But that could just be the way she speaks.
Her sister opens both packets of utensils, using her teeth, and proceeds to cut up Mrs. Bernstein’s dinner.
“Do you need any help?” Daphne asks.
“No, thank you, dear. We’re just fine,” Mrs. Feldman says.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going then,” Daphne says. “I have one more room to do. Enjoy your dinner.”
“We will,” Mrs. Feldman assures her. “We always do, don’t we, Pearl? Have a nice evening now. Take care. And thanks a million.”
“You, too,” Daphne says, not quite sure what she’s answering.
Before she lifts the last meals from her cart, she tries to imagine the two sisters as children, sharing a room then, too, with a different kind of clutter: dolls, skates, schoolbooks. But it’s impossible to do. They are fixed forever in her head the way she’s just seen them. Only her own, more recent, childhood is within reach of imagination and memory, and even that’s uncertain. When Daphne visits her family in Seattle, she and her mother argue about little points of family history. No, of course Daphne never had a pink tulle dress with a satin slip—does she think her mother has no taste at all?—and they moved before her grandfather died, not after, doesn’t she remember?
Daphne takes a small perfume dispenser from her uniform pocket and sprays both of her wrists generously, and then the back of her neck.
She brings the final trays to 227, where the current star of the Palomar Arms is sitting in quiet darkness. The blind is drawn against the vanishing light, and the television set is blank and silent. It’s clear that someone in here wets herself.
Daphne’s eyes adjust and she finds Mrs. McBride, who is uncommonly tall and thin, sitting upright in her chair, asleep. Maybe it’s the influence of all the centennial talk, but she looks monumental to Daphne, like the seated statue of Lincoln in Washington, D.C. Especially when Daphne throws the light switch, illuminating her. Such stillness! Daphne’s breath catches. What if she’s dead, with less man two months to go?
Mrs. McBride opens her eyes that are smoky with sleep and cataracts, and Daphne is held for a moment by their solemn gaze. Then she puts the two trays down, and adjusts Mrs. McBride’s table over those draped angular knees. “Supper!” Daphne sings out, and hears muffled weeping from the other bed, where a large blanketed form is lying. That patient’s daughter, who’s usually there to feed her mother, must be out using the hall telephone, or the visitors’ bathroom.
“Where’s …” Daphne begins, and then she sees the ribbon bow. It’s pink satin, and might have come from a candy box or an overdressed plant. Someone has tied it into the sparse white hair at the top of Mrs. McBride’s head. It destroys her awesome dignity, making her look like one of those absurd little poodles that yap and dance around on two frilled legs. A playful nurse must have done it, or a phantom fan, while the old woman was sleeping. Daphne forgets her unfinished question. She reaches up and snatches the ribbon from Mrs. McBride’s hair. It slides right off, and Daphne shoves it into her pocket, alongside the perfume dispenser. “There!” she says, and hurries out of the room.
Jerry Palumbo, one of the physical therapists, and Monica Mann, from Laundry, are sharing a joint in the staff lounge when Daphne gets there. They’re already stoned, and smile like cats as Daphne takes her yogurt and fruit from the refrigerator. Two maintenance men are asleep in chairs, and Mkabi Wilson, a second-floor RN, is at a table, shuffling through a stack of index cards. During the da
y she attends a bartending school. It’s a six-week course, and when she graduates she’ll have a certificate that will enable her to work at private parties, where she could earn as much per hour as she does for nursing. Then she’ll try to get a different shift here.
Mkabi and her husband Darryl are fiercely ambitious. He works two jobs now, and their small son Bobby spends much of his time at a day-care center, or with one of his grandmothers. It’s for Bobby’s sake that his parents are working this hard. They both grew up in the Watts ghetto and want to provide insurance against poverty for him. Money is being set aside for Bobby’s education, with the ultimate goal of medical, dental, or law school. They want to buy a house soon in a more affluent neighborhood, so that the boy will have a natural sense of himself in a privileged environment. Mkabi is named for a Zulu princess and she looks royal, with her elegant neck and that dense crown of spiraling curls the tiny cap can’t suppress. She waves at Daphne and continues to work through her cards, which contain recipes for various mixed drinks.
Daphne sniffs at her yogurt and begins to eat.
“Hey, baby,” Jerry says. He holds the minuscule joint out to Daphne, who shakes her head, indicating the yogurt.
“Moss gets high on Dannon,” Monica says. She refers to everyone by surname.
“Looking good, Daphne,” Jerry says. He’s compact, hairy, and limber, and reminds her of those illustrations in her anthropology text of that form of life midway between ape and man. Physical Therapy, or PT, as it’s called at the Palomar Arms, shuts down before the patients’ dinner hour, but, to Daphne’s surprise, Jerry rarely leaves directly after work. He hangs around, coming on to one of the women or another in a blatant, almost ludicrous way. Can anyone take him seriously? He’s wearing white pants and sneakers, and a white T-shirt with a picture of Joan Crawford on it, and the caption: I Never Laid a Fucking Hand on Those Kids.
After Daphne finishes her supper, she volunteers to help Mkabi study. They face one another and Daphne takes the cards. “Pink Squirrel,” she says.
Mkabi shuts her eyes and begins reciting: “Stemmed cocktail glass, mixing cup, ice. Two ounces cream, half ounce white creme de cacao, half ounce creme de almond. Blend and strain.”
“Right!” Daphne says. “How about a Gin Presbyterian?”
After Mkabi goes back on duty, Monica and Jerry start to dance without music. Monica is a big blonde in a tent dress. “La-la-la,” she sings,, and Jerry bends her backward in an exaggerated dip, making her shriek. One of the maintenance men wakes up, stares blearily, and then goes back to sleep. Monica and Jerry collapse against one another on the orange couch.
“Mkabi manages to do so much,” Daphne says. “She’s absolutely amazing.”
“Wilson?” Monica says. “She’s a real dreamer.”
“No, she’s not,” Daphne argues. “She and Darryl work harder than anyone I know, and they save every penny they can. Bobby’s going to have a better chance because of them. How can you say she’s a dreamer?”
“Do you know what’s gonna happen to that kid?” Monica asks. “After Mommy and Daddy break their backs stashing it away for him? Do you know what little Bobby’s gonna do?”
“What?” Jerry asks, kissing her on the neck.
She pushes him away. “Little Bobby’s gonna drop out, drop acid, snort coke, and shoot smack. He’s gonna rob banks, pimp women, and break his lovin’ mama’s heart.”
Daphne is furious. “What a dumb, racist thing to say, Monica! Bobby is a wonderful child. He’s already a superior student in preschool, and he’s going to have a terrific life.”
Monica smiles, her lids heavy. She holds up her hands as if to ward off a mighty force. “Okay, okay,” she says. “You win. I take it all back. He’s a great kid, a real little genius. He’s gonna grab all the honors, and Harvard and Yale are gonna fight over him. You win.” She falls silent, yet Daphne is uneasy, as if something invisible but evil has entered the room.
“Then you know what’s gonna happen?” Monica begins again. Her voice is husky with intent. “After they get him the best house in the best neighborhood? The best car? Little Bobby’s best house is gonna burn down with him in it. Faulty wiring, he doesn’t even smoke. Or a fucked-up white cop shoots him dead, by mistake. No, no! Wait! Some drunk is gonna jump the divider when Dr. Bobby’s speeding in his 450SL to save another sucker’s life. Crash. Bang. That’s what’s gonna happen.”
Daphne feels ill, almost faint. Her whole body is swarming with anger and anxiety. “That’s sick, Monica,” she says. “Really sick. How can you say such terrible things?”
“Because that’s how it works,” Monica says. “Do you really think anything’s fair? Do you think Ken’s gonna leave Barbie in their dream house and marry you? What a whiny little feeb you are, Moss. Go out there. Go down the halls. Look in the rooms. That’s what happens.”
“She’s stoned,” Jerry explains, but his own face is pale, and he has edged away from Monica to the other side of the couch. He attempts to change the subject.
“They’re closing in on Rauscher, you know, for Medicare fraud.”
Daphne moves in an injured trance as she retrieves the dinner trays. Most of the patients are sleeping or watching television. She looks down toward the floor, avoiding their faces. The night-lights reveal discarded slippers, newspapers, and enterprising roaches darting off with fallen crumbs of food.
She regrets having confided in Monica and Mkabi the week before when the three of them were alone together in the lounge for a while. It was as if the secret of herself and Kenny could no longer be contained. Did love always call up a braggart’s need to spread the news? Or was it insecurity that made her blab everything, for the confirmation of envy and support? Someone else to say yes, yes, it’s wonderful, it’s rare, it’s true. Perhaps her only error was in the choice of confidantes, although that evening Monica had been mildly neutral, almost approving. Mkabi, on the other hand, had delivered a sermonette on the virtuousness of virtue. One didn’t mess around with married men; it invariably led to tragedy. “Huh,” Monica had commented. “Being married to a married man is what leads to that.” She had hinted on previous occasions of at least two failed marriages of her own. After what she’d said tonight, though … well, she’s crazy, that’s all. This whole place is a madhouse.
Daphne’s rubber soles suck at the floor, and her meal cart rattles and squeals. Oh, why couldn’t she have gotten that job with the telephone company? The woman in Personnel had seemed to like her in the initial interview. Daphne’s story about moving from L.A. to Ventura to be closer to her fiancé sounded reasonable and appealing. She’d explained that she would have an associate’s degree in communications by the end of the year, mumbling the word “associate’s” and carefully emphasizing “communications.” The only real lie was a small one. She had actually moved here to be away from Kenny, or safely out of the radarscope of his wife’s suspicion. Daphne hated the word “fiancé,” though, and felt later that it was hardly appropriate under the circumstances. It occurred to her that other words relating to marriage were equally unsatisfactory. “Bonds of matrimony” could be a euphemism for S and M; and she hoped that when her wedding to Kenny finally did take place, no newspaper announcement would say that her nuptials had been held.
Unexpectedly, Daphne encounters herself in the mirror in 225, where the sisters are asleep. In the dim light, her simple white uniform is not unbridelike. She wonders at her patience with Kenny, that she has accepted with such good will his lawyer’s advice of extreme caution, that Kenny still lives at home with his wife and children, that nothing has been hinted to that wife of his affair with Daphne. And that Daphne is displaced here in Ventura, here at the Palomar Arms, in on a conspiracy against herself. U.C.L.A. was a much better school. And she had been able to find more interesting work, on and off campus, that fit into her schedule.
She thinks of Allen Burdette, a doctoral student in psychology she was seeing just before she met Kenny. He looked a lot like Al
Pacino, only taller, and after a date he’d phone her and recite Keats: “What can I do to drive away / Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen, / Ay, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!”
Daphne and Allen were on the brink of sexual convergence, and then Kenny showed up in her life. When she was packing to go to Ventura, Allen rang her doorbell. It was past midnight, and he looked drunk or high on something. She prayed that he wouldn’t start quoting sonnets or villanelles at her while she wound her dishes in bubble wrap. But instead he paced among the cartons for a few moments before saying, “I really heated you up for that guy, didn’t I?”
Still, she is weighted with homesickness. She misses her close female friends in Los Angeles, and has hesitated to ask anyone to visit overnight, for fear it will be the very night that Kenny’s wife decides to go out of town with the children. So far, though, she’s never gone—farther than Rodeo Drive.
In the kitchen, a portable television set is playing. Mrs. Shumway is long gone, and the aides are watching the news as they clean up. The volume is low, but sound ricochets off the white tiled walls, giving everything, even the commercials, a strange profundity. It is as if God Himself is commanding them to buy Rice-A-Roni. On the local news, a municipal judge, convicted of conspiracy and accepting bribes, is led away in handcuffs. Daphne cools her face in the smoking frost of the freezer. How does she know that Kenny no longer sleeps with his wife, or if he’s really seen a lawyer? How does she know anything?
4
NORA MCBRIDE HAS LIED about her age; she is only ninety-seven years old and won’t be entitled to the centennial celebration in her honor in August or September, whenever her birthday is. Still, she’s the oldest resident of the home, unless someone is shaving off a few years. How easy it used to be to falsify or invent personal records. Births were often registered late, or not at all. Immigrants searched their bundles for proof of themselves, and then were handed new American names for their new lives.
In the Palomar Arms Page 3
