by John Grisham
Whatever you call them, they're all depressing. But they are my turf, my mission, and every time I see a new one I'm excited by the challenges.
I park my ancient and battered Volkswagen Beetle in the small empty parking lot in front. I adjust my black-framed 1950s-style nerd glasses and my thickly knotted tie, no jacket, and get out of my car. At the front entrance, under the sheet-metal veranda, there are half a dozen of my new friends sitting in deep wicker rocking chairs, watching nothing. I smile and nod and say hello, but only a couple are able to respond. Inside, I'm hit by the same thick, putrid antiseptic smell that wafts through the halls and walls of every one of these places. I present myself to the receptionist, a robust young woman in a fake nurse's uniform. She's behind the front counter, going through a stack of paperwork, almost too busy to acknowledge me.
“I have a ten o'clock appointment with Ms. Wilma Drell,” I say meekly.
She looks me over, doesn't like what she sees, and refuses to smile. “Your name?” Her name is Trudy, according to the cheap plastic badge pinned just above her massive left breast, and Trudy is precariously close to becoming the first name on my brand-new shit list.
“Gilbert Griffin,” I say politely. “Ten a.m.”
“Have a seat,” she says, nodding at a row of plastic chairs in the open lobby.
“Thank you,” I say and proceed to sit like a nervous ten-year-old. I study my feet, covered in old white sneakers and black socks. My pants are polyester. My belt is too long for my waist. I am, in a nutshell, unassuming, easily run over, the lowest of the low.
Trudy goes about her business of rearranging stacks of paper. The phone rings occasionally, and she's polite enough to the callers. Ten minutes after I arrive, on time, Ms. Wilma Drell swishes in from the hallway and presents herself. She, too, wears a white uniform, complete with white stockings and white shoes with thick soles that take a pounding because Wilma is even heavier than Trudy.
I stand, terrified, and say, “Gilbert Griffin.”
“Wilma Drell.” We shake hands only because we must, then she spins and begins to walk away, her thick white stockings grinding together and creating friction that can be heard at some distance. I follow like a frightened puppy, and as we turn the corner, I glance at Trudy, who's giving me a look of complete disdain and dismissal. At that moment, her name hits my list at number one.
There's no doubt in my mind that Wilma will be number two, with the potential of moving up. We wedge into a small cinder-block office, walls painted government gray, cheap metal desk, cheap wooden credenza adorned with Wal-Mart photos of her chubby children and haggard husband. She settles herself behind the desk and into an executive swivel, as if she's the CEO of this exciting and prosperous outfit. I slide into a rickety chair that's at least twelve inches lower than the swivel. I look up. She looks down.
“You've applied for a job,” she says as she picks up the application I mailed in last week.
“Yes.” Why else would I be here?
“As an attendant. I see you've had experience in retirement homes.”
“Yes, that's correct.” On my application I listed three other such places. I left all three without controversy. There are about a dozen others, though, that I would never mention. The reference checking will go smoothly, if it happens at all. Usually there is a halfhearted effort to place a couple of calls. Nursing homes don't worry about hiring thieves or child molesters or even people like me, guys with a complicated past.
“We need an attendant for the late-night shift, from 9:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., four days a week. You'll be in charge of monitoring the halls, checking on the patients, caring for them in a general way.”
“That's what I do,” I say. And walking them to the bathroom, mopping floors after they've made a mess, bathing them, changing their clothes, reading them stories, listening to their life histories, writing letters, buying birthday cards, dealing with their families, refereeing their disputes, arranging and cleaning their bedpans. I know the routine.
“Do you enjoy working with people?” she asks, the same stupid question they always ask. As if all people were the same. The patients are usually delightful. It's the other employees who find their way onto my list.
“Oh yes,” I say.
“Your age is—”
“Thirty-four,” I say. You can't do the math? My date of birth is question number three on the application. What she really wants to say is, “Why does a thirty-four-year-old man choose to pursue such a demeaning career?” But they never have the guts to ask this.
“We're paying $6.00 an hour.”
That was in the ad. She offers this as if it were a gift. The minimum wage is currently $5.15. The company that owns Quiet Haven hides behind the meaningless name of HVQH Group, a notoriously sleazy outfit out of Florida. HVQH owns some thirty retirement facilities in a dozen states and has a long history of nursing home abuse, lawsuits, lousy care, employment discrimination, and tax problems, but in spite of such adversity the company has managed to make a mint.
“That's fine,” I say. And it's really not that bad. Most of the corporations that operate chains start their bedpan boys at minimum wage. But I'm not here for the money, at least not the modest wages offered by HVQH.
She's still reading the application. “High school graduate. No college?”
“Didn't have the opportunity.”
“That's too bad,” she offers, clucking her teeth and shaking her head in sympathy. “I got my degree from a community college,” she says smugly, and with that Ms. Wilma Drell hits the list hard at number two. She'll move up. I finished college in three years, but since they expect me to be a moron, I never tell them this. It would make things far too complicated. Postgrad work was done in two years.
“No criminal record,” she says with mock admiration.
“Not even a speeding ticket,” I say. If she only knew. True, I've never been convicted, but there have been some close calls.
“No lawsuits, no bankruptcies,” she muses. It's all there in black and white.
“I've never been sued,” I say, clarifying a bit of language. I've been involved in a number of lawsuits, but none in which I was
a named party.
“How long have you lived in Clanton?” she asks in an effort to drag out the interview and make it last more than seven minutes. She and I both know that I'll get the job because the ad has been running for two months.
“Couple of weeks. Came here from Tupelo.”
“And what brings you to Clanton?” You gotta love the South. People seldom hesitate to ask personal questions. She really doesn't want the answer, but she's curious as to why someone
like me would move to a new town to look for work at six bucks an hour.
“Bad romance in Tupelo,” I say, lying. “Needed a change of scenery.” The bad romance bit always works.
“I'm sorry,” she says, but she's not, of course.
She drops my application on the desk. “When can you start work, Mr. Griffin?”
“Just call me Gill,” I say. “When do you need me?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Fine.”
They usually need me right away, so the instant start date is never a surprise. I spend the next thirty minutes doing paperwork with Trudy. She goes about the routine with an air of importance, careful to convey the reality that her rank is far superior to mine. As I drive away, I glance at the forlorn windows of Quiet Haven and wonder, as always, how long I will work there. My average is about four months.
My temporary home in Clanton is a two-room apartment in what was once a flophouse but is now a decaying apartment building one block off the town square. The ad described it as furnished, but during my initial walk-through I saw only an army-surplus cot in the bedroom, a pink vinyl sofa in the den, and a dinette set near the sofa with a round table about the size of a large pizza.. There's also a tiny stove that doesn't work and a very old refrigerator that barely does. For such amenities I promised to
pay to the owner, Miss Ruby, the sum of $20 a week, in cash.
Whatever. I've seen worse, but not by much.
“No parties,” Miss Ruby said with a grin as we shook hands on the deal. She's seen her share of parties. Her age is somewhere between fifty and eighty. Her face is ravaged less by age than by hard living and an astounding consumption of cigarettes, but she fights back with layers of foundation, blush, rouge, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and a daily drenching of a perfume that, when mixed with the tobacco smoke, reminds me of the odor of dried, stale urine that's not uncommon in nursing homes.
Not to mention the bourbon. Just seconds after we shook hands, Miss Ruby said, “How about a little toddy?” We were in the den of her apartment on the first floor, and before I could answer, she was already headed for the liquor cabinet. She poured a few ounces of Jim Beam into two tumblers and deftly added soda water, and we clinked glasses. “A highball for breakfast is the best way to start the day,” she said, taking a gulp. It was 9:00 a.m.
She fired up a Marlboro as we moved to the front porch. She lives alone, and it was soon obvious to me that she was a very lonely woman. She just wanted someone to talk to. I rarely drink alcohol, never bourbon, and after a few sips my tongue was numb. If the whiskey had any impact on her, it wasn't obvious as she went on and on about people in Clanton I would never meet. After thirty minutes, she rattled her ice and said, “How 'bout some more Jimmy?” I begged off and left soon thereafter.
Orientation is led by Nurse Nancy, a pleasant old woman who's been here for thirty years. With me in tow, we move from door to door along the North Wing, stopping at each room and saying hello to the residents. Most rooms have two. I've seen all the faces before: the bright ones happy to meet someone new, the sad ones who couldn't care less, the bitter ones who are just suffering through another lonely day, the blank ones who've already checked out of this world. The same faces are on the South Wing. The Back Wing is a little different. A metal door keeps it secured, and Nurse Nancy enters a four-digit code on the wall to get us through.
“These are the more difficult ones,” she says softly. “A few Alzheimer's, a few crazies. Really sad.” There are ten rooms, with one patient each. I am introduced to all ten without incident. I follow her to the kitchen, the tiny pharmacy, the cafeteria where they eat and socialize. All in all, Quiet Haven is a typical nursing home, fairly clean and efficient. The patients appear to be as happy as you could expect.
I'll check the court dockets later to see if the place has ever been sued for abuse or neglect. I'll check with the agency in Jackson to see if complaints have been filed, citations issued. I have a lot of checking to do, my usual research.
Back at the front desk, Nurse Nancy is explaining visitation routines •when I'm startled by the sound of a horn of some variety.
“Watch out,” she says and takes a step closer to the desk. From the North Wing a wheelchair approaches at an impressive speed. In it is an old man, still in his pajamas, one hand waving us out of his way, the other squeezing the bladder of a bike horn mounted just above the right wheel. He is propelled by a crazed man who looks no older than sixty, with a large belly hanging out from under his T-shirt, dirty white socks, and no shoes.
“Quiet, Walter!” Nurse Nancy barks as they fly by, oblivious to us. They speed off into the South Wing, and I watch as other patients scurry to their rooms for safety.
“Walter loves his wheelchair,” she says.
“Who's the pusher?”
“Donny Ray. They must do ten miles a day up and down the halls. Last week they hit Pearl Dunavant and near 'bout broke her leg. Walter said he forgot to honk his horn. We're still dealing with her family. It's a mess, but Pearl is thoroughly enjoying the attention.”
I hear the honk again, then watch as they wheel around at the far end of the South Wing and head back to us. They roar by. Walter is eighty-five, give or take a year (with my experience I can usually get within three years of their age—Miss Ruby notwithstanding), and he's having far too much fun. His head is low, his eyes are squinted as if he were going a hundred miles an hour. Donny Ray is just as wild-eyed, with sweat dripping from his eyebrows and gathering under his arms. Neither acknowledges us as they go by.
“Can't you control them?” I ask.
“We tried, but Walter's grandson is a lawyer and he raised a ruckus. Threatened to sue us. Donny Ray flipped him over one time, no real injuries, but we think maybe a slight concussion. We certainly didn't tell the family. If there was more brain damage, it wasn't noticeable.”
We finish orientation precisely at 5:00 p.m., quitting time for Nurse Nancy. My shift begins in four hours, and I have no place to go. My apartment is off-limits because Miss Ruby has already fallen into the habit of watching out for me, and when I'm caught, I'm expected to have a little touch of Jimmy on the front porch. Regardless of the hour of the day, she's always ready for a drink. I really don't like bourbon.
So I hang around. I put on my white attendant's jacket and speak to people. I say hello to Ms. Wilma Drell, who's very busy running the place. I stroll down to the kitchen and introduce myself to the two black ladies who prepare the wretched food. The kitchen is not as clean as I -would like, and I begin making mental notes. At 6:00 p.m., the diners begin their protracted arrivals. Some can walk with no assistance whatsoever, and these proud and lucky souls go to great lengths to make sure the rest of the seniors are reminded that they are much healthier. They arrive early, greet their friends, help arrange seating for those in wheelchairs, flit from table to table as quickly as possible. Some of those with canes and walking carts actually park them at the door of the cafeteria so their colleagues won't see them. The attendants help these to their tables. I join in, offering assistance and introducing myself along the way.
Quiet Haven currently has fifty-two residents. I count thirty-eight present for dinner, then Brother Don stands to say the blessing. All is suddenly quiet. He's a retired preacher, I'm told, and insists on delivering grace before every meal. He's about ninety, but his voice is still clear and remarkably strong. He goes on for a long time, and before he's finished, a few of the others begin rattling their knives and forks. The food is served on hard plastic trays, the kind we used in elementary school. Tonight they're having baked chicken breasts—no bones—with green beans, instant mashed potatoes, and, of course, Jell-O. Tonight it's red. Tomorrow it'll be yellow or green. It's in every nursing home. I don't know why. It's as if we spend our entire lives avoiding Jell-CD but it is always there at the end, waiting. Brother Don finally fades and sits, and the feast begins.
For those too frail for the dining room, and for the unpredictable ones on the Back Wing, the food is rolled out on trays. I volunteer for this service. A couple of patients are not long for
this world.
Tonight's after-dinner entertainment is provided by a den of Cub Scouts who arrive promptly at 7:00 and hand out brown bags they've decorated and filled with cookies and brownies and such. They then gather near the piano and sing “God Bless America” and a couple of campfire songs. Eight-year-old boys do not sing voluntarily, and the tunes are carried by their den mothers. At 7:30 the show is over, and the residents begin drifting back to their rooms. I push one in a wheelchair, then help with the cleanup. The hours drag by. I have been assigned to the South Wing—eleven rooms with two each, one room with a single occupant.
Pill time is 9:00 p.m., and it's one of the highlights of the day, at least for the residents. Most of us poked fun at our grandparents for their keen interest in their ailments, treatments, prognoses, and medications, and for their readiness to describe all of this to anyone who would listen. This strange desire to dwell on the details only increases with age, and is often the source of much behind-the-back humor that the old folks can't hear anyway. It's worse in a nursing home because the patients have been put away by their families and they've lost their audience. Therefore, they seize every opportunity to carry on about their afflictions whenever a staff member i
s within earshot. And when a staff member arrives with a tray of pills, their excitement is palpable. A few feign distrust, and reluctance, and fear, but they, too, soon swallow the meds and wash them down with "water. Everyone gets the same little sleeping pill, one that I've taken on occasion and never felt a thing. And, everyone gets a few other pills because no one would be satisfied with just a single dose. Most of the drugs are legitimate, but many placebos are consumed during this nightly ritual.
After the pills, the place gets quieter as they settle into bed for the night. Lights are off at 10:00 p.m. As expected, I have the South Wing all to myself. There's one attendant for the North Wing and two on the Back Wing with the “sad ones.” Well past midnight, when everyone is asleep, including the other attendants, and when I'm alone, I begin to snoop around the front desk, looking at records, logs, files, keys, anything I can find. Security in these places is always a joke. The computer system is predictably common, and I'll hack my way into it before long. I'm never on duty without a small camera in my pocket, one I use to document such things as dirty bathrooms, unlocked pharmacies, soiled and unwashed linens, doctored logbooks, expired food products, neglected patients, and so on. The list is long and sad, and I'm always on the prowl.
*
The Ford County Courthouse sits in the middle of a lovely and well-kept lawn, in the center of the Clanton square. Around it are fountains, ancient oaks, park benches, war memorials, and two gazebos. Standing near one of them, I can almost hear the parade on the Fourth of July and the stump speeches during an election. A lonely Confederate soldier in bronze stands atop a granite statue, gazing north, looking for the enemy, holding his rifle, re' minding us of a glorious and lost cause.
Inside, I find the land records in the office of the chancery clerk, the same place in every county courthouse in the state. For these occasions I wear a navy blazer with a tie, nice khakis, dress shoes, and in such a getup I can easily pass for just another out-of-town lawyer checking titles. They come and go. There is no requirement to sign in. I don't speak to anyone unless I'm spoken to. The records are open to the public, and the traffic is scarcely monitored by clerks who are too disinterested to notice. My first visit is to simply get acquainted with the records, the system, to find everything. Deeds, grants, liens, probated wills, all sorts of registries that I'll need to peruse in the near future. The tax rolls are down the hall in the assessor's office. The lawsuit filings and cases are in the circuit clerk's office on the first floor. After a couple of hours, I know my way around and I've spoken to no one. I'm just another out-of-town lawyer pursuing his mundane business.
