by Lourey, Jess
Because of that experience, and because in my teens and twenties I’d been confident I’d never grow old and so why bother hanging out with those who were, I’d never entered another nursing home. Until I’d moved to Battle Lake. A series of circumstances led me to the Senior Sunset, and specifically to seek out Curtis Poling. He was believed to be in the middle stages of dementia by those who didn’t know him, an incorrect assumption that he cultivated by casting off the roof of the Sunset into the dry lawn in the back whenever it was sunny and “the fish were likely to be biting.” In truth, Curtis was as wily as they came, with sharp, clear blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He’d gone from being my informant to my friend, the man I visited weekly to play cards with, laugh with, and, in the summer, get gardening tips from. He’d also introduced me to Mrs. Berns last March, though she had since moved out of the nursing home and into her own apartment, labeling her temporary residency there a “misunderstanding.”
Today, as I strolled into the foyer of the Senior Sunset, I was struck by how comfortable the predominant scents of a nursing home—antiseptics, Bengay, and dusty-floral old-lady perfume—had grown to me. I signed in at the front desk and made my way to Curtis’s room. I knocked at his door.
“Who is it? Is it Satan? Because I’m not ready to go just yet.”
“Hey, Curtis. It’s me. Mira.”
“Timothy Leary? I’m too old for that psychedelic crap.”
“Mira,” I repeated, keeping my voice level. I smiled as a short, chunky nursing assistant walked past, wearing burgundy scrubs and a suspicious expression. “Mira James.”
“Etta James? What are you doing this far north?”
I sighed. “I brought donuts.”
“Door’s unlocked.”
I let myself in. Curtis lived in a standard room, set up much like a hospital room except for the dresser and the plants in the window. His room featured a bed and a nightstand, a TV mounted to the ceiling, an easy chair by the window and a plastic chair for guests, a closet, and a private bath. He was sitting by the window, reading H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine. Upside down. When he was sure it was me, he flipped it right side up.
“Why do you pretend?” I asked. “All the smart nurses must know you’re not crazy.”
He shrugged. “I make it easy on ’em by being consistent. And the crazier I act, the more they leave me alone.” He was wearing a dark blue terry cloth robe. His thin calves poked out like chopsticks. Thankfully, his bony feet were stuffed into the toasty knit mukluks I’d bought him for Christmas after I’d accidentally caught him barefoot. Old farmer’s feet are the stuff of nightmares.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“What?”
“The donuts.”
“I lied about those.” I pulled up the plastic chair so I was sitting across from him. “What was the deal with giving me the runaround in the hall?”
“New nursing assistant. Comes up about to your shoulders, shaped more like a square than a circle?”
I nodded. “She passed by while I was trying to get in. She looked fine, maybe a little curious.”
“Shows what you know. She’s convinced I’m not really crazy and has made it her mission to prove it.”
“Smart, too. I think I like her.”
He scrunched up his lips in a pout, and for a moment, he resembled a baby more than an old man.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll bring donuts next time. Promise. Do you have a few minutes right now?”
“That might be all I have. Never know when the ticker is going to punch out.” He winked. “So what do you want to know?”
First I asked him about Gary’s shooting. He’d heard that it’d happened, of course. You might not think someone in a nursing home would have their finger on the pulse of a town, but you’d be wrong. He still had friends on the outside, and stories were the currency of the Sunset. The elderly traded news like gold and pearls, and it all, somehow, rolled downhill to Curtis. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any more information on Gary than I did, and was in fact happy to learn that Gary’s wound was not serious.
The next topic of conversation was Maurice Jackson. Curtis didn’t ask me if I was okay after finding another body, and I loved him for that. He treated me like I was normal. He did say that he’d heard there were new drugs in town, and a gang on the fringes, and that he assumed they were connected.
“What do you mean, ‘on the fringes’?” I asked.
“They don’t live in Battle Lake, near as I can tell. In fact, I don’t know why they’d even bother coming here, with our small population. But they’ve been showing up often enough.”
“Do you think Gary’s shooting is connected to the gang?”
He rubbed his chin. “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. I’ve lived here for ninety-three years and never has a Battle Lake police officer been shot. It’d be quite a coincidence if a gang comes to town at the same time Gary’s attacked, and there’s no thread between the two. What’d you think of the Prospect House?”
“I never made the press tour,” I said, noting his abrupt shift in topic but not commenting. “I’m hoping for an email back scheduling a private tour.”
He stared out the window. I was struck by how ocean blue his eyes were, and how similar they were to Johnny’s. “She’s a gorgeous old building, that Prospect House. I’m happy other people are going to get to experience her. I stole my first kiss there, did you know that? She was a girl from St. Louis, visiting for the week with her parents. They owned a mercantile back home, I believe. I courted her all of those seven days she was in town, and the night before she left, I snuck into the Prospect House and met her at the base of the grand staircase. I pecked her cheek. She giggled and ran upstairs. Never saw her again.” His eyes grew misty and faraway.
I couldn’t help smiling. “That’s beautiful. What was her name?”
“Amelia. Prettiest girl you ever saw, except for my wife, God rest her soul.”
His use of the word girl reminded me of the face I’d seen in the window when I’d been skating. I didn’t see any reason to bring it up. In fact, the further I got from the event, the more certain I was I’d imagined it. I’d need a full night’s sleep soon or I’d be completely loony. “Sorry to bring you back to earth, but I have one more question. What can you tell me about Eric Offerdahl?”
His eyes immediately focused. He began chuckling. “How much research did you do on the Prospect House?”
“I know it was built by Barnaby Offerdahl. I imagine Eric is related to him.”
“Good. I was worried you were getting soft. Eric must be the, let me see now … the great-great grand-nephew of Barnaby. There might be even one more great on there. Eric can trace his lineage straight from Barnaby’s brother. He has blood from the bad side of the family.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s been nothing but trouble since he was born. That’s true of that whole remaining Offerdahl branch. Eric’s parents still own a lot of the land surrounding the Prospect House, but they had to sell off the house to pay gambling debts. I’m surprised they haven’t sold the land as well, given how much that would be worth.”
“Are his parents still alive?”
“His mom, no. She died a decade or so back, heart attack I think I heard. His dad is older, in his seventies, I believe, but as far as I know, still alive. They had Eric late in life. He’s an only child. After he graduated high school, they moved to Phoenix or Texas. Somewhere warm.”
“Any idea where Eric is now?”
“How many donuts are you planning on bringing me next visit?”
“How many do you want?”
He chuckled. “This is worth at least a half dozen Long Johns, but not with that fake chocolate in the middle. I want jelly.”
“You got it.”
He kept the smile on his face. “Last I heard Eric blew ba
ck into town about the same time the gang did.” He raised his eyebrows to make sure I understood what he was implying. “He’s living somewhere around Swederland.”
Swederland was a two-bars-and-a-post-office town a five-minute drive from Battle Lake. “That’s where the new brewery is, isn’t it?”
“O’Callaghan’s. But that is a whole other story, and you’d have to bring me a dozen donuts for that.”
I wanted to hear more, but his eyes were drooping, and Curtis’s hands had grown minutely shaky on his lap. He was tired, and he was trying to tell me gently. I stood and kissed the top of his head. He still had thick white hair, which was a point of pride with him. It smelled like Brylcreem. “That’s a deal. I have to be running, though. Have an appointment and all that.”
He took my hand. His was as dry as paper, but strong despite the tremor running through it. I glanced at his face, surprised by the affection.
“You are going to be okay, kid.” He smiled and released my hand. “You’re like a cat, curious as the day is long, and always landing on her feet.”
I smiled back. “See you soon,” I said. I glanced over my shoulder on the way out. His eyes were closed.
I arrived at the library with a full hour to go until the birthday party. I decorated with a roll of crepe paper and flicked on the twinkle lights, then went to my computer. Navigating into my paid database, I first ran a search on Eric Offerdahl. There was only one hit, his current address listed as north Minneapolis. I also uncovered a list of misdemeanor crimes committed by him, including vandalism, petty theft, and public intoxication. Most of his crimes took place in Minnesota with the exception of a case of trespassing in Chicago. He’d done jail time, a month here or a month there, but on paper, he appeared to be more of a directionless punk than a serial criminal.
I tracked down a single photo of him, a fuzzy shot where he had his arm wrapped around a woman’s neck in a possessive hug. He had brown hair. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but he wore a spike through his right eyebrow. The rest of his features were bland. The woman had a beautiful, heart-shaped face accented by a lip ring and thick black liner rimming her eyes.
I clicked on the photo and was brought to the woman’s Facebook page. I knew of Facebook, of course. Who didn’t? I didn’t have an account I posted to, though, just a skeleton page to allow me to log in and research others. What had our culture come to that people needed to advertise that they had a cold and were going to shop for cheese later that day? Made my job easier, but still.
The woman’s name, according to the page, was Lil Angie, and she lived in Minneapolis. I couldn’t find any other photos of Eric on her page or any more mention of him. I wrote down the URL and left Facebook, glancing at the clock. The birthday party guests would arrive soon.
I had time for a curiosity-driven search on “Maurice Jackson,” so I returned to my subscription database. I received twenty hits on the name in the greater Chicago area, with phone numbers and addresses for all of them. Whether they were current or whether any of them were the iced Maurice would remain to be seen because at that moment, the first knock came at the glass front door. It was Matthew and his mom. I waved them in with one hand and clicked the Print button with the other.
Matthew’s friends weren’t far behind, and soon I had the library filled with giggling, Duck Duck Gray Duck–playing kids. They were extra-crazy, hiding in plain sight under chairs and telling jokes with no punch lines. It must be the weather, which one parent told me was going to reach the low thirties today.
“Above freezing?” I asked.
“I know!” she said, as surprised as I was.
Mrs. Berns, who had promised to help me with today’s party, showed up as the worst was over and we were about to cut into the cake and ice cream. “Nice timing,” I whispered, as she laid her coat over the front counter.
“Thank you!” she said brightly. “Is it marble cake? That’s my favorite.”
I glanced over at the sheet cake Matthew’s mom was cutting into, slicing right into the green frosting tail of a brontosaurus. Marble cake was my favorite, too. Could I have cookies for breakfast, pie for a snack, and cake for lunch? I was excited to find out. “I don’t know yet. Where were you?”
“Late night,” she said. “I was playing bridge with some friends, and then I went to the Rusty Nail to sing karaoke.”
I asked, despite myself. “What’d you sing?”
“‘Like a Virgin,’” she said, straight-faced. “Let me help!” she ran over to where Matthew’s mom was sliding the first slice of cake onto a plate. “I can be your distributor.”
Matthew’s mom smiled gratefully and handed the plate to Mrs. Berns, who added a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on the top and then returned to my side.
“Aren’t you going to pass it out to the kids, first?”
“Charity starts at home.”
I threw my hands in the air. She was being particularly difficult today. I scurried over to help with the cake, making sure all the kids and parents had what they needed, all the while wishing I’d laid plastic on the floor. It looked like I was going to have to bring in a professional to shampoo the carpet after this shindig. The thought killed my desire for cake, so I made my way back to Mrs. Berns. She was talking to a woman who’d brought her grandson to the party. The lady was showing Mrs. Berns a photo book. I assumed the pictures were of her grandson and was surprised to make my way out to the side and see they were instead of a golden retriever.
“It’s my Sandy,” she said in answer to my expression. “She’s lived with me for two years. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Dogs are the only things that love another person more than themselves.”
“You’ve obviously never been to an Al-Anon meeting,” Mrs. Berns muttered under her breath.
“Wait, you have?” I asked her.
The grandma took that moment to snap her book closed and return to the party, an annoyed expression on her face.
Mrs. Berns wiggled her eyebrows. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, missy.”
I was taken aback. She was absolutely right. She was so honest and forthright and I was so comfortable with her that I hadn’t bothered to plumb her past. Her husband had died ten years ago, that much I knew, and she had kids who had tried to confine her in a high-security nursing home last October. I also knew that she got laid more in a bad week than I did in a good month. She’d lived in or near Battle Lake her whole life, she never let life get her down, and she preferred to wear replica six-guns holstered at her sides, though she’d given up this accessory for the winter. But did she dream of traveling the world? What had her life with her husband been like? What was her favorite drink?
“Quit looking at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a commercial for an animal shelter and your brain is running some pitiful commentary along the bottom of my screen. I just made that crack to get rid of Emma. If she’d referred to her dog as her ‘child,’ I woulda had to kick her, and the Al-Anon comment seemed kinder.”
I cocked my head. She was sounding more like her old self. Still, something was a little off. “You sure you don’t want to talk?”
“You sure you want me to tell this room full of children that when you’re alone, you dream of Chief Wenonga walking his fiberglass legs over to your house and showing you his totem pole?”
“Okay,” I said, turning to the children and clapping loudly, my voice dripping with false cheer. “Time to get cleaning!”
The kids groaned and fell to the ground as if their bones had turned to rubber, but we were already fifteen minutes over the scheduled time. Even if I didn’t have Mrs. Berns’s threat burning the tips of my ears, I wanted to make visiting hours at the hospital so I could check in with Gary. The moms glanced at their cell phones or watches and began cleaning up the party area with the precision
of worker ants. If the United States could only harness the power of moms, we’d break our dependence on oil once and for all.
The library was cleared out in less than twenty minutes, and I swear it was cleaner than it had been pre-party. No thanks to Mrs. Berns, of course. She’d snuck out as soon as the picking-up began. I made a note to myself to track her down soon so I could ask her more questions about herself. At this moment, though, my priority was visiting one Gary Wohnt so I could question him about the shooting.
Entering the hospital empty-handed seemed in poor taste, but I didn’t want to buy Gary flowers and I didn’t know what kind of food he liked. Using the tried-and-true maxim, “If you bring something you like, you know at least one person will be happy,” I purchased four Nut Goodies at a gas station on my way. I polished off one before I hit the parking lot, leaving three, which seemed like a better number anyhow, and here’s my reasoning: if there was someone else already there, we’d each have one. If I brought in four Nut Goodies, though, it’d devolve into one of those embarrassing social situations where everyone had to pretend like they didn’t want the extra one.
Gary’s room was on the second floor. I made my way to the elevator, trying not to stare at the people wearing robes and pushing IVs as they shuffled down the hallway. It seems to me that if you’re admitted to the hospital, you should stay in your room or go home, but what did I know?
No matter how many times I’d visited a hospital, I still couldn’t get used to the sense that germs were settling on every inch of me in a light mist. I hit the “2” button in the elevator with my elbow, smiling apologetically at the man I was sharing it with.
