Vultures at Twilight

by Charles Atkins

  Gasping for breath, Tolliver pulled off on to the gravel drive, and with his hands white-knuckled to the wheel, he sobbed.

  FIVE

  As Delia Preston waxed eloquent about the virtues of Nillewaug Village, I grew increasingly anxious. I couldn’t tell if it was the polished administrator’s rapid-fire presentation, her too-red Chanel knock-off suit, her perfect ash-blonde upsweep, her flawless makeup, her stagey office with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the man-made pond and waterfall four stories below, or the hard fact that Ada was contemplating a move back to New York. I desperately wanted this to be the solution. Move Rose – possibly kicking and screaming from her fourteenth-floor rent-stabilized apartment on Rivington – to a light and lovely unit at Nillewaug. Problem was, everything that came through Delia’s lip-sticked mouth was tripping alarms, and I couldn’t tell why. Was it just that she looked like a woman trying too hard to stay pretty, like some ex beauty queen of indeterminate age, or was it more to do with the reasons why Bradley had stopped working here? ‘It just doesn’t feel right,’ he’d said, ten years back when he’d resigned after a very brief stint as their first medical director. At the time I’d not pressed for details.

  ‘Every comfort and consideration has been taken into account,’ she boasted. ‘Nillewaug Village is the complete life-care community. We are committed to the Nillewaug Promise.’ Delia paused, she made eye contact first with me and then with Ada. ‘Once the Promise Agreement is signed, we will take care of everything. Absolutely everything. There’s no need—’

  ‘How does it work?’ Ada interrupted.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The Administrative Director asked.

  ‘I understand the basics. There’s a one-time buy-in for your unit and then if you start to lose it, they stick you in the nursing home part.’

  Delia looked at Ada, taken aback by her bluntness. I wanted to applaud.

  Ms Preston deftly volleyed, spinning a more cheery light. ‘I can see you’ve grasped the basics, but Nillewaug offers so much. The best way to show you is to take you on a tour.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ada as she got to her feet, both of us still in jeans, sweatshirts and sneakers from the morning’s marathon at Evie’s. ‘I suppose we’d better. Coming Lil?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ I said, entertaining pleasant thoughts of Ms Preston slipping in her elegant red pumps.

  ‘Our first stop, the dining room. As you see –’ the administrator waved her arm, like a game-show hostess displaying a new washer-dryer – ‘it looks nothing like a cafeteria, but more like a fine restaurant.’

  She had a point. The wood-paneled room was tastefully decorated with Queen Anne style furniture and sparkling brass chandeliers. Several diners, some engaged in quiet conversation, looked up as we entered.

  I smiled, recognizing a couple faces. Apparently, we were not big news and after a cursory look, they returned to their meals. The air was heavy with the smells of beef Wellington and home-made rolls that steamed from inside linen-covered baskets. My mouth watered.

  ‘Today we’re having a choice of beef or scallops.’ She looked at Ada. ‘And for our Jewish residents we also have a kosher entrée. And people can certainly prepare their own meals in their apartments, but most of our residents come down for at least one meal a day. The socialization is so important, and we have a world-class chef.’

  Ada wandered to one of the tables and examined its surface.

  ‘Nice, aren’t they?’ Ms Preston said, trailing her prospective customer. ‘It’s hand-tatted Brussels lace.’

  Sure enough, at each setting were exquisite doilies carefully protected beneath a layer of glass.

  ‘We find they give you the feel of tablecloths without the need to do laundry. Everything wipes clean with a sponge,’ Ms Preston gushed.

  ‘Everything?’ Ada asked, feeling the back of a mauve and gray upholstered chair.

  ‘Yes.’ Delia graced us with a dazzling smile. ‘All of the fabrics are completely stain resistant. In fact –’ she lowered to a whisper – ‘they’re guaranteed against all bodily fluids.’

  ‘Bodily fluids?’ I commented.

  ‘Well,’ she conceded with a tiny grimace, ‘occasionally . . . accidents.’

  I looked at Ada to see what effect that had on her. Apparently, she was a woman with a mission, and not to be deterred by placing her mother with some leaky neighbors.

  ‘I’d like to see one of the apartments,’ she said.

  ‘That’s a great idea!’ Delia said. ‘We have two bedroom, one bedroom and studios. Any preference?’

  Ada exhaled heavily. ‘I suppose the biggest you’ve got. My mother has a ton of stuff and getting her to part with any of it is a battle I’m not ready for.’

  Delia prattled as electric doors slid shut. ‘So you both live at Pilgrim’s Progress. Many of our residents come from there. Of course we offer a number of conveniences that they are just not able to accommodate.’

  ‘Such as?’ I asked, noting how smooth and motionless Delia’s forehead was. Botox?

  ‘The full spectrum of personal care.’

  Maybe I was being too critical, everything looked lovely. The halls decorated in contrasting shades of plum, gray and ivory. In the distance, I watched an elderly lady with Parkinson’s shuffle toward her apartment. Each of her steps a small victory as she started and stopped, carefully gripping the handrail that ran the entire length of the wall. Yes, for that woman this makes sense. And I thought of Rose, who’d hate this place. But what were the options? I watched Ada as she was led into the model two-bedroom unit. Of course she’d put family first, and if that meant moving back to Manhattan or maybe having Rose move in with her . . . But I knew those long weeks of post-angio had been a nightmare for Ada. Because our mirror-image condos share an adjoining wall I’d heard it all. Embarrassing to admit that hadn’t been the first time I’d eavesdropped. And here’s where I go from nosy neighbor into stalker, I’ve actually listened at the wall with Bradley’s stethoscope. We had both settled in Pilgrim’s Progress eight years ago. It was part of Bradley’s master plan to sell the big white house on High Street, with his increasingly frustrating medical practice downstairs, and retire to a life of golf, travel and reading. Like most of Grenville, we’d taken drives through the sparkling new condos, and he already had become a member of the golf club. But Bradley, who was twelve years older than me, wasn’t ready to retire, regardless of what he’d said. After we moved to Pilgrim’s Progress he became the medical director for half a dozen area nursing homes. His supposed retirement was mostly late-night emergency calls, very little golf, and then one night two years back . . .

  If I could have erased a single memory from my mind, it would have been the night I woke to find him dead. The phone on his side of the bed had been ringing, and I wondered why he hadn’t picked up. To this day, I can’t understand how I slept as my husband died. For months, I tortured myself, wondering ‘what if ?’ What if I had woken and given him CPR? Could I have saved him? Bradley would say that modern medicine had come miles in cardiology; that it was easier to keep people alive with bypass surgery and angioplasty. Why didn’t I wake up?

  As for Ada, she and Harry moved in to the adjoining condo three months after us. Harry, a lifetime smoker, had end-stage emphysema. My earliest impression was that they’d make fine neighbors, but really, what did we have in common? This red-headed Jewish woman with her largely silent husband and a house that reeked of stale tobacco. I’d made the snap assessment that ours would be a cordial, but reserved relationship. But then, a couple weeks after they’d settled, I’d overheard an argument through the connecting wall. Ada was being hounded by her visiting daughter and son-in-law. They were insisting that Harry be moved to a nursing home. ‘Dad requires twenty-four hour care. The doctor says he needs oxygen and physical therapy. You can’t provide that.’

  Her son-in-law had called her foolish and had made it clear that he and Susan had enough to take care of with their two children. Repeat
edly he had said, ‘Don’t look to us to bail you out when this doesn’t work.’

  I remembered thinking that Harry must have heard the whole thing; how horrible. Later, as I came to know him, I learned that on top of his failing lungs and heart, he had Alzheimer’s.

  Ada had kept her voice low – which is why I simply had to use the stethoscope – as she’d stood her ground, and through the adjoining wall I’d heard: ‘Susan, I will always love you, but right now I want you and Jack to leave me and your father alone. I vowed for better for worse and I intend to make good on it.’

  With my ear to the wall, I’d wept and waited until they had driven off, and then, armed with an apple sour-cream coffeecake from the Pilgrim’s Progress Bakery, I had called on Ada.

  Now, as I trailed behind my friend and the Nillewaug director, I began to understand. Ada was at a crossroads. Her brothers and sisters – two in Florida, one in California and one in Arizona – were all much older and all had a shopping list of health issues. When Rose had her heart attack they’d all called, but not one was able to visit, citing various crises of their own.

  As we wandered through the empty deluxe two-bedroom unit, I caught hints of its previous owner: a scrap of pink-flowered contact paper in the bottom of a closet drawer, a forgotten photograph of smiling, golden-haired children taped to the inside of a kitchen cupboard, and a series of stainless steel safety bars in the bathroom, kitchen and hallway.

  My shudder had returned. Was the previous resident dead or had she declined to the point where they had taken her to one of the two nursing home portions of Nillewaug?

  I listened as Ada questioned the director. ‘So, how much does this apartment go for?’

  ‘Well, they’re not really apartments per se.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘This very one?’ Delia asked, her eyes fixed on Ada, something calculating and intelligent assessing her prospective client.

  ‘A ballpark,’ prompted Ada.

  ‘Don’t quote me, but when I last checked, this was five hundred thousand.’

  Ada didn’t flinch. ‘Everything included?’

  ‘Yes and no. There is a monthly fee.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three thousand.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight.’ Ada looked at the ceiling as she figured the math. ‘I’d have to pay five hundred thousand to buy in, plus three grand a month. I have to tell you, Delia –’ she looked straight at the director – ‘that seems high.’

  ‘Well,’ Ms Preston backpedaled. ‘If you wanted to see something less expensive, like a studio, or one of our new convenience units . . .’

  ‘Let me ask you,’ Ada continued. ‘There was someone else living in this unit. Will she get anything from the sale? That is, of course, if she’s still alive. But even if she passed away, does her estate get the proceeds?’

  Delia’s jaw clenched while her mouth stayed fixed in a smile. ‘The units go back to the Nillewaug Corporation.’

  ‘So the estate gets nothing,’ Ada said.

  ‘If you want to think about it that way.’

  ‘I don’t mean to give offense,’ said Ada. ‘I just need to know what I’d be getting in to. Who makes the decision to send someone to the nursing home?’

  ‘That’s a question many prospective residents ask,’ said Delia, clearly relieved to be on safer ground. ‘At Nillewaug we make every effort, up to and including twenty-four-hour in-home companions, to keep our residents in their own units. We have in-home oxygen and intravenous therapy capabilities, and every other type of therapy: physical, occupational, even massage can be delivered within the campus.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ Ada persisted. ‘Who makes the decision?’

  ‘It varies,’ admitted the director. ‘Obviously, we take into account the preferences of the resident. But sometimes, if it’s advanced dementia, or severe post-stroke paralysis, that may not be possible.’

  ‘In which case?’ Ada prompted.

  ‘Then it’s the families that help us decide, typically with the input of their physician and our medical director.’

  ‘Who’s your medical director?’ I asked, remembering Bradley’s veiled comments as to why he’d left the position.

  ‘Dr Stanley. Gordon Stanley.’

  The name was familiar but I couldn’t place him. It bothered me. Gordon Stanley, where do I know him from?

  ‘Well, I’ve seen enough,’ Ada said as she moved into her I’m ready-to-leave-now mode.

  I followed her lead and we edged toward the door.

  Delia, sensing her prey was about to escape, launched the hard sell. ‘If you’re seriously considering this for your mother, and from everything you’ve told me about Rose, we’d love to have her. But you need to know that we have very limited inventory. The unit you just saw is our only open deluxe model.’

  Ada shot her a look. ‘Delia, we’re talking about my mother and a tremendous amount of money. I will take all the time I need, and if you don’t have a unit that suits, there are other facilities in this area.’

  ‘Yes, but, you need to compare apples and—’

  Ada interrupted, ‘We’ll be leaving now, but what you could get me is a copy of your standard contract that I’ll have my attorney review.’

  ‘As a practice, we don’t release the Promise Agreement unless someone’s actually buying in. It’s proprietary and we—’

  ‘Ms Preston, I don’t enter into any business deal blind. If you want my business you’ll fax me a copy of the tenant agreement, or promise whatever.’

  ‘I assure you,’ Delia said, ‘there’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s quite straightforward.’

  ‘Then good, I’ll take a look at it, and see if this is something that would work.’

  ‘But I can’t—’

  ‘Then neither can I,’ Ada said.

  Delia’s lower lip curled, and her forehead would have furrowed had it been possible. Her frustration was palpable as she tried to find a way around Ada’s resistance. ‘I’ll have to speak with our CEO.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Warren,’ she said, clearly unhappy with the direction this was going.

  ‘Jim Warren?’ I asked. ‘The attorney?’

  ‘Yes,’ Delia admitted. ‘I’ll have to check with him.’

  ‘Then good,’ Ada said, and she pulled out a card with her numbers. ‘If you could either email or fax that would be great.’

  When we finally freed ourselves from Delia, and were heading toward the car, Ada stopped. She turned and faced the towering Georgian brick façade of Nillewaug’s central residential building. She ran a hand through her hair and took a slow turn. I stood at her side, taking in the stately outer buildings like spokes on a wheel, where the six hundred unit residential building formed the massive hub. All around lush and perfectly maintained landscaping with rustic stone walls, woods with walking paths and benches and the built to impress man-made lake and waterfall, where giant koi flashed beneath flowering lilies.

  ‘It’s nice enough.’ Her tone was less than enthusiastic. ‘Did you see how quiet everyone was? And why was she so squirrelly about letting us see the agreement? I don’t know . . .’ She sighed. ‘I just don’t know.’

  SIX

  As Mildred Potts punched in the security code for her shop, Taffy ran excited circles around her ankles. It had been a long day with a lot of Lookyloos, but no buyers. The end of the month was approaching, and even with her robust markups, if things didn’t improve . . . Well, she wouldn’t think about that. The down economy had hurt everything and the antique business was no exception.

  She slid the deadbolt as Taffy started to yip. Mildred looked up and saw a lone figure at the end of the alley that separated Aunt Millie’s Attic from the Grenville Historical Society.

  She smiled. ‘You came back to look at the cameo? Well . . .’ She quickly disarmed the security system and unlocked the door. Normally she wouldn’t have done this, but the cameo i
n mention was a spectacular Victorian lapis lazuli set in fourteen carat gold with large rose-cut sapphire and diamond accents. At ten grand it could go a long way toward pulling the month out of the crapper.

  She ushered her late-afternoon customer into the showroom with its outstanding collection of antique jewelry and expensive bibelots, all purchased at a fraction of their value. Mildred Potts prided herself on never paying more than ten cents on the dollar. It had given her a reputation, but this was a tough business and considering how many of her colleagues had recently closed shop, or were in jeopardy of doing so, only the shrewd survived.

  With Taffy under her arm, Mildred gushed, ‘Now, I’ve been dealing in jewelry for . . . well, for more years than I care to say, but this piece is outstanding. You have a sophisticated eye.’

  She unlocked the display case and lifted the jewel from its velvet-lined box. As she slid it toward the customer, her index finger lifted up the tag, letting her see the asking price, as well as her carefully encrypted code that told her what she had paid for it. The latter information she rarely needed. This piece in particular had been part of a major score. It was included in a liquidation she’d gotten on a low-ball bid, with heirs who were both eager and ignorant, a delicious combination. All said and done, the brooch had cost her less than a hundred dollars.

  ‘Of course,’ she offered, watching as the customer fondled the pin, ‘I could do a little better on the price.’

  ‘How much better?’

  Mildred rechecked the price and inhaled deeply, as if experiencing sharp pain. ‘I could go nine even, but I have a lot of money in that piece. I know I shouldn’t have paid what I did for it, but sometimes you have to if you want quality.’

  ‘Of course,’ the customer said, and then uttered the one small sentence that was music to Mildred’s ears, ‘I’ll take it.’

  Taffy squealed excitedly, sensing his mistress’ elation.

  ‘Such a sweet dog,’ the customer commented as Mildred wrote up the sale.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, while figuring the six and a quarter percent sales tax. ‘She’s my little Taffy-waffy.’