by Melanie Tem
Marshall announced, 'Faye's home.' His face was alight, his gaze fixed on the middle distance of his fractured but expansive interior landscape. Billie wasn't sure what he'd said. A lot of the time she wasn't sure what he'd said, and it bothered her, but if she asked him to say it again he got agitated.
Then, abruptly, he cringed and tried to curl himself up in his chair. The vest restraint prevented him from doing more than bringing his knees up, his head down, his wrists in to cross over his torso, which he'd made concave by bending forward his shoulders and pelvis as though to protect his internal organs.
Across the table from him, not too close but close enough to be identified as his wife, still part of a couple, Billie sopped up the last of the syrup on her plate with the last bite of pancake. The pancakes hadn't been hot when Roslyn had slapped them onto the tray and by now they were positively cold, coated with cold syrup, and they'd come out of a box to begin with. But they weren't bad.
Every meal she ate here, which was almost every supper and sometimes lunch and once in a while breakfast, Billie' was offended by all the shortcuts they took in the kitchen, to save money and work. She'd never say anything to Rebecca or Ros, but she didn't think food was where you ought to cut corners, not when food was just about all some of these poor people had left. She and Marshall had always been on a budget, too, especially in the early years. She'd been busy, too. But she'd never in her life served pancakes from a mix.
On Marshall's behalf she took offense, even though he didn't seem to notice any difference between this food and what she'd cooked for him all their lives together. He'd always been so persnickety about food, and he wouldn't have eaten instant pancakes if he'd been starving to death. Here he ate a tall stack, and would want more. Billie couldn't understand where he put all that food; he was so thin. Frail. Frail was a disconcerting thing to think about your husband. Senile was, too.
Marshall always said the food was good, affectionately told her it was good, as if she'd cooked it for him. He was always so pleased. His pleasure made Billie feel good as if she really had cooked it with him in mind. It also made her terribly sad.
The funny thing was, Billie herself didn't mind the nursing-home food as much as she thought she ought to. Even the cold pancakes out of a box tasted pretty good, and she'd actually liked the chicken last night. Roslyn did the best she could. Billie decided she'd ask for the recipe; she'd never go to the trouble of fixing it just for herself, but still.
They made her feel so welcome here. At home. Marshall didn't always exactly know her, and that broke her heart, but she was known and welcomed in this place. Dexter and Gordon always spoke to her by name, and both of them flirted, Dexter declaring at the top of his lungs, the way he declared everything, that her husband was a mighty lucky fellow, a mighty lucky fellow, and Gordon presenting her with flowers he'd pilfered from neighbors' yards. Gordon called Rebecca 'Princess,' which Billie thought was cute, but she didn't know about this dog of his; who ever heard of animals in a nursing home? Mrs Quinn would come and have a cup of coffee with her in the evenings, sometimes just the two of them left in the dining room. Fervently, Billie hoped Mrs Quinn would be all right. What an awful thing. It wasn't Rebecca's fault, you couldn't be everywhere at once, but those nurses ought to have been watching better.
Billie liked the old people, when she didn't dwell on the fact that they were her own age, many of them even younger. Gordon was sort of endearing, although she didn't think this was the best place for him; didn't they have places for old drinkers? She didn't mind Paul, really, and she felt so sorry for him, but his drooling and lurching made her nervous. Alexander Booth could be charming and he had some interesting things to say, so she guessed he was all right.
But the insane ones bothered her. Like that man standing over there against the wall watching her — he always seemed to be watching her; he always seemed to be watching everybody — and that woman of his and the old lady who screamed she was Cleopatra and Jesus Christ. Billie shuddered. People like that didn't belong here, and more of them were being admitted. What was Rebecca thinking of? Her own father.
Instinctively Billie moved to block Bob Morley's view of her husband. She'd have been able to ignore what he'd said just now if he hadn't unfolded himself and said it again, pitifully, as if he hardly could believe it himself. It was almost a question. 'Faye's home?' Then he looked right at her, and his eyes cleared, and he said brightly, 'Faye. You're home. Welcome home.'
Stunned, Billie protested, 'Marshall Emig! I'm not Faye! For goodness' sake, Marshall, I'm Billie! I'm your wife!'
Marshall exclaimed again, pleased as a little boy, 'Faye!' And strained across the sticky table to hold out both old hands to her.
Billie didn't take his hands. In fact, she leaned back out of his reach. Her fingers had turned numb with the shock of what he was saying, but she knew it wouldn't really sink in until later, until she got away from him. He thought she was Faye. He thought Faye had come home. And he was glad.
Marshall relaxed then, while maintaining that awkward position; though she was terribly hurt, Billie fretted that the restraint must surely be cutting into his ribs. His face slowly went blank. Billie watched as energy drained, muscles slackened, eyes clouded over. His head drooped toward his outstretched arms, as if to rest there, but the Posey — an awfully cute name for such a contraption — held his torso upright. He was asleep.
Billie wanted more than anything to get out of here. Why should she care about Marshall if he was going to think she was Faye? She'd thought they were rid of the woman years ago - and yet, she found she wasn't completely surprised that Faye had reappeared now in Marshall's scrambled mind. Tears filmed her eyes but she refused to let them fall. Lots of people around here shed lots of tears, but she was not going to be one of them. She'd cry at home, alone.
But she couldn't leave him just sitting here asleep, not with that madman staring at him, not when he was seeing Faye. And she couldn't manage him by herself when he was all sprawled out across the table like that. She looked around for somebody to help her. All the girls were busy hurrying people out of the dining room whether they'd finished their breakfast or not.
Billie got to her feet and stood by the table, hoping she'd be able to catch somebody's attention, hoping Marshall wouldn't wake up. Faye, of all things. To have to think about Faye again at her age. She waved to Shirley, but couldn't catch her eye. Shirley was arguing with Dexter McCord, who didn't want to leave the dining room yet, didn't want to take a bath. He was holding onto the edge of the table and bellowing. Shirley was prying his fingers loose. One of them was going to get hurt.
Billie looked away from the unpleasant scene, wished she could close her ears. Except for Shirley and Dexter, herself and Marshall, and that man hunkering by the back door, the dining room had been emptied. Billie had the feeling somebody else was there, but she scanned the room more than once and saw no one. The radio was on in the kitchen, but it was always on and she couldn't tell whether Roslyn was back there or not.
Her legs went wobbly on her and she groped for the back of the chair, sank into it. If she weren't so heavy she'd be better off, but she couldn't see herself losing weight now. She rested her elbows on the table and her head on her hands, defeated, bent over like Marshall but a little less so. This was beyond her. All she could think to do was wait for somebody to notice that Marshall wasn't in his room and come looking for him. It shamed her that she couldn't handle her own husband. That's why he was in a nursing home, because she couldn't do right by him.
Roslyn came out from the kitchen, as she did most mornings, to have coffee with some of the residents who lingered. She wasn't supposed to do that; she was supposed to be cleaning up after breakfast and starting prep for lunch. Let the girls do that; if they didn't know what to do by now they were all in trouble. She had enough on her mind, like Adele. The salesman from ARA would be here this morning and she didn't have her order ready. Screw it. What was the point of this job if she couldn
't take a few minutes to talk to the people she was cooking for?
Not that she liked all of them. She kept trying to explain it to Adele. Just because they lived in a nursing home didn't mean they were all interesting or decent human beings or even - Roslyn's bare minimum - not irritating. Bob Morley, for instance, was practically nothing but irritating. There he was now, hulking just outside the back door. Smoking, probably, or feeling up Petra, or jerking off. Ros wondered if he'd eaten breakfast. A lot of the time he wouldn't eat with the others. Ros suspected he couldn't stand their company, and she could relate to that, so more often than not she'd fix him a tray later, by himself. She wasn't supposed to do that, either. Screw it.
Beatrice Quinn was one of her favorites, but the old broad was still in the hospital. The last time Roslyn had visited, Beatrice had patted her hand and said not to worry, she'd be back in a few days, but who knew? Roslyn missed her. Shame, what had happened. Ros wondered whose fault it was. The driver's? The nurses' and aides', for not watching her better? Beatrice Quinn's? If she didn't knock it off, Bea was going to wake up in one of those locked wards someday. But if Ros herself was ever in a nursing home, she'd be doing her damnedest to escape all the time, too. They'd have to tie her down. Maybe that's what they ought to do with Beatrice.
Juggling her enormous coffee mug and the morning paper, she pushed aside the dishes and crumbs on one of the vacated tables the girls hadn't got to yet, brushed off some sort of cobweb or the back and seat of the chair, and sat herself down. Sooner or later somebody would join her. By now it wouldn't surprise her if Rebecca showed up, never mind that the administrator had no business here this early in the morning. Rebecca was naive and in over her head, and according to Diane the only reason she had got this job so' young was because she slept with Dan Murphy. To hear Diane tell it, everybody from the new little housekeeper to the Health Department nursing surveyor was sleeping or had slept with Dan Murphy, which, looking at him, was hard to believe, and as if Diane would know anyway. But you couldn't accuse Rebecca of not working hard.
Having in this way started thinking about sex and trade-offs for sex, Ros was well into thinking about Adele some more picturing herself in Adele's arms, fantasizing about Adele's tongue and her own — when Bob slammed open the back door and strode toward her. 'Hungry,' he grunted.
Over the top of the paper Ros fixed him with a baleful stare. 'Should've eaten your breakfast, shouldn't you? It's a long time till lunch.' She knew and he knew she'd get him a tray, but she wasn't going to make it too easy. One of Rebecca's more ridiculous ideas was that residents ought to be able to get snacks whenever they felt like it, just as if this really were their home. Roslyn openly scoffed at that one.
'Fuck you.' Bob said clearly.
With difficulty Ros stopped herself from decking him; the muscles in her arm actually clenched. She didn't even raise the verbal obscenity stakes, though a dozen more imaginative rejoinders sped through her mind. 'And the horse you rode in on,' was what she said back, which was probably over his head. With a furious rustle and snap she raised the paper in front of her face again and simply pulled rank, an option always available to her and any other staff person no matter what Rebecca said about equality and shared power. 'Get out of here.' she ordered. 'Breakfast's over.'
'You'll be sorry,' he snarled, then stormed out the back door, slamming it. She was surprised that he'd left without a struggle or at least an argument. If he got hit by a car it would be her fault for not giving him breakfast whenever the hell he wanted it, no matter how obnoxious he was. Ros scowled.
There was nothing worth reading on the front page. She tried to fold the paper to page 2, but it buckled and the inside sections slid out onto the floor. Bending to pick them up, she grunted and cursed.
The intercom crackled: 'Roslyn Curry, call on line 1. Ros, line 1, please.' So Rebecca was here already; who did she think she was? The page broke into the relative quiet of the early morning, started the yap that would go on all day. Even at night there were phone calls to announce and nursing staff to summon from one wing of the facility to the other, and occasionally, when things were slow, the night shift would play on the intercom, sing or tell jokes or call mischievously to each other, just to break the monotony and keep themselves awake. Not everyone who lived there was awakened by this. Some were deaf. Some were so inured to the erratic stimulation of their environment that even the electronically enhanced shouting, laughter, crackling, and whistling didn't really bother them. Those who were disturbed often didn't sleep again that night unless they were sedated, for which all of them had standing doctor's orders in their charts; the insomnia and the medication were, most of the time, duly charted and reported as a problem in patient-care conferences, but regarded as routine.
Ros sat there, not wanting to answer the phone. She spent half her goddamn life on the phone. It was just the ARA guy, confirming their appointment, which was his sneaky way of making sure she was ready for him, which she never was. She successfully ignored the page until Rebecca repeated it, then slapped the paper down on the still-uncleaned table, said, 'Okay, okay, keep your pants on; and stalked into the kitchen to pick up the phone.
'Roslyn?' came Adele's voice, and she sounded funny. Adrenaline surged through Ros, making her queasy.
'What's the matter?' Silence, and Ros had to ask again, 'Adele, what's wrong.?'
Adele took an audible breath and said in a rush, 'There's somebody else.'
For long moments Ros didn't consciously know what Adele was talking about, although the sudden gauziness of her senses, followed by abrupt, terrible claritythe cracks in the ceiling three-dimensional, the odors of pancakes and syrup and coffee acrid—probably signalled comprehension at some visceral level. Everything that came into her head to say seemed both ridiculous and dangerous, life-threatening. She heard the back door open and didn't hear it shut. The son-of-a-bitch never did shut the door.
Adele said, 'I'm in love with somebody else,' and now there was no question what she meant.
Ros said, stupidly, 'Who is he?' and Adele gave a shriek of outraged laughter. The salesman from ARA knocked on the doorframe, stuck his head in, gave a jaunty wave, and settled himself and his order forms at the nearest table, still in full view and earshot. Ros said, 'Shit. Okay, who is she?'
Predictably, Adele said, 'It doesn't matter who she is, Ros. Things just aren't going to work out between us.'
Roslyn was having trouble breathing; her throat was clogged and scratchy, as though a fine net scarf had been shoved into her esophagus. She turned her back on both Bob Morley and the salesman and managed to ask through the obstruction, 'Why not?' She didn't know what the rules were here. Did a lesbian lover—that was the first time she'd allowed herself even to think the word 'lesbian'—break up with you the same way and for the same reasons a man would?
Apparently so, because Adele said, 'Oh, Ros, we just aren't right for each other. We haven't been right from the beginning, but I kept hoping things would get better,' and Roslyn had the same Alice-in-Wonderland headrush she'd had when her husband had left her, telling her things she should have known all along and had never even guessed.
She found that she had been staring at the flickering ceiling fixture; her vision was starred now with bursts of multicolored light and their auras. Her head buzzed, less like a swarm of mosquitos than like the electric zapper that incinerated them.
'I won't be here when you get home,' Adele finished, and broke the connection. Ros did not hang up right away.
Since Billie Emig had heard her daughter's voice on the PA, sounding awfully bossy coming out of the speakers all over the building like that, she'd been waiting for Rebecca to come into the dining room, see her father, and help her mother get him to his room. No such thing happened. Billie sat there. In a fierce undertone, she said to Marshall, 'You notice who's here taking care of you now that you're senile, don't you? Not Faye,' but of course he didn't have anything to say to that.
A man she'd never see
n before, in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, walked past their table, whistling. He smiled down at her and patted her shoulder. 'Good morning, dear.' Rebecca hated it when people talked to Billie like that; she said it was patronizing, but to Billie he was just being nice. The man peeked into the kitchen, waved to Roslyn, and, still whistling, sat down at a table near the door, where he opened his briefcase and spread out papers.
Rebecca didn't come, and neither did anybody else. Billie resolved to ask Roslyn for help; she hated to do that, since it wasn't really Ros's job and the man in the suit was obviously here to see her. Billie hesitated, increasingly angry and afraid.
With a cry, Marshall woke up and jerked himself back so hard that the chair moved. His eyes bulged, and there were bubbles in the corners of his mouth. Billie got to her feet and went to him. He tried to get away from her. 'Leave me alone!' he was hollering, all the more awful because his voice was raspy and hollow, stuck in his throat. He struck out at her, batting her hands away. He'd never hit her before.
