Chapter 14
“Jenny Pennoyer.”
“Hi, Rhoda,” Jenny said in a muted voice.
“Well, goldang!” Rhoda was trying, so Jenny pushed out a smile.
“Elephant joke,” Rhoda said. “What did the elephant say when the VW ran into it?”
“Rhoda—”
“How many times have I told you kiddies, no playing in the road!”
“Ha, ha,” Jenny said quietly.
Rhoda looked at her, pushed her hands through the short frizzy bush of hair. “Hey, you can laugh better than that. What do you need, another elephant joke?”
“Rhoda, don’t.”
“Girl, what’s the trouble. You sound like you lost your best friend, but that can’t be possible, because here I am.”
“Rhoda, listen. My parents went for a ride yesterday and they … they …” She clenched her lips. She didn’t want to say the words.
“Hey, Jenny, what is it? What happened?”
A group of boys rushed past them. “Rhoda Rivers,” one of them yelled, “go on home, your momma’s calling you.” They all laughed.
Jenny waited until the boys were far past them. “Rhoda, my parents went to see an old people’s home. For Grandpa.”
“A place for your grandfather to go, to live there?”
“Yes.”
Rhoda sidestepped a pile of dog droppings. “Is it a nice one?”
“How do I know? What do I care!”
“Well, it matters, Jenny. I mean, some of those places are awful, but some of them are nifty. I bet your parents picked a nice one.”
“A nice one. A nice one! Are you stupid or something?”
“Well, look at it this way—don’t be so upset, maybe your grandfather will really like it. Maybe—”
“Are you crazy?” Jenny felt that in a moment she would either scream or break into tears.
“You don’t know, Jenny. He’ll be with people like himself—”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” Jenny pushed past Rhoda and began walking very fast up the hill. There was a sick, sour taste in the back of her throat.
At home, no one said anything about an old people’s home and, therefore, Jenny didn’t ask. What wasn’t mentioned might not be true. Forget it, push it aside, bury the worry and fear, go on as usual.
Monday passed, Tuesday, then Wednesday. Still, nobody mentioned “homes” or “castles.” Thursday after school she took Ethel out in the stroller and Grandpa came along for the walk. He looked better and was walking with a cane, complaining about not having his tobacco. “Been smoking my pipe for sixty-five years. Damn fool idea to try and make me give it up now. Trying to teach an old dog new tricks.”
“It’s better for you, Grandpa,” Jenny said. She picked up a bright scarlet maple leaf and handed it to Ethel. “Say leaf, honey. Leaf.”
“Wah, wah,” Ethel said, pointing to a puddle. She hit her hands on the stroller tray. “Wah! Wah!”
“She’s hopeless,” Jenny said to Grandpa.
Friday evening he sat with the family in the living room and watched TV. On the screen, a comedienne wearing a long, shapeless black dress and a little pie-shaped hat sat down on a park bench. Her mouth folded into a tiny prim square, she fussed anxiously with her big flat pocketbook and looked suspiciously around her. An old man with a drooping mustache, leaning heavily on a cane, approached.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I hitchhiked all over the country, Jenny?” Grandpa said.
“Shhh!” Gail flapped her hands impatiently and leaned toward the screen.
“You were fifteen, weren’t you?” Jenny said.
Grandpa nodded. “A boy of fifteen. I hitched through twenty states, on my own for nearly a year before I got home—”
“Grandpa, please!”
“Pop, will you pipe down, this is a good show.”
Jenny touched his hand. On the screen the old man had sat down next to the woman. She was giving him suspicious glances. With every little suspicious glare, the audience roared.
“Nice day,” the old man squeaked timidly.
“What!” the woman cried in outrage. “What did you say?”
“Nice day,” he said even more timidly.
“I thought so,” she cried, and raising her big pocket-book she hit him over the head, knocked him about the shoulders, and finally toppled him over flat on his face on the ground. “That’ll teach you,” she said, stepping on his prone body and walking away.
“That kills me; that just kills me,” Gail cried gleefully.
On Saturday afternoon Jenny took the bus downtown and looked for a birthday present for her mother. An umbrella? Writing paper? Sheet music? She couldn’t find anything that satisfied her and went home empty-handed. Anyway, her mother’s birthday was still two weeks away.
After supper there was TV again and buttered popcorn. Everything was ordinary, usual, and reassuring. Then on Sunday afternoon her parents said they were going for a drive. They were taking Ethel, did anyone else want to come? “Me,” Gail said, trying on a scarf.
“You’ll stay home with Grandpa, Jenny?” Mrs. Pennoyer asked, zipping Ethel into her sweater. “I don’t want to leave him alone.”
“Where are you going?” Jenny’s palms felt damp. Were they going to that place again?
“Just going to drive around.” Mrs. Pennoyer, holding Ethel around the middle, bent toward a mirror, smoothing a flake of powder off her nose.
“Come on. Let’s go, whoever’s going,” Mr. Pennoyer called. “You stay home, Jenny.”
If only she could unlock her tongue, come right out and ask, Are you going to put Grandpa in that place? In a Home? But what if they had forgotten, and her asking reminded them?
“I want to come with you,” she said. She had to know for herself.
They all got into the car, parents in front, the three girls in the back seat. As her father was backing the car out of the driveway, Vince and Valerie came around the side of the house and waved. “I asked them to stay home,” Mrs. Pennoyer said, “because of him.”
Him. Say his name! Jenny thought. Grandpa! She stared out the window, biting her tongue, reminding herself that she couldn’t afford to get in trouble with her father because she just had to go along on this ride.
“Caa,” Ethel said, pointing to the traffic. “Caa.”
“What a day,” Mrs. Pennoyer said. “Aren’t we lucky?” The air was bright and only a few puffy clouds floated in the sky. Mr. Pennoyer drove leisurely out of the city and up and down back roads where new houses were springing up like mushrooms after a rain. “Lavender shutters?” Mrs. Pennoyer said. “Now really.”
“Did you see that barbecue pit, Amelia? I’d like to make one of those in our backyard.”
“Can’t burn in the city, Frank. There’s an ordinance against it.”
“Outdoor cooking is okay—oh, hey, look at that, swimming pool and all. That house must have cost fifty thou if it cost a penny—”
“Frank, I like that brickwork, don’t you? And look at that gorgeous fencing they’re putting up.”
Jenny yawned. Her parents’ voices melted in her head and made her feel sleepy. They often went on Sunday drives exactly like this, her father driving leisurely up and down different roads, her parents commenting on the expensive houses, the scenery blurring past her eyes. Today seemed no different, except for the awful thing Gail had told her. She sat up again, blinking and fearful. Where was Snooks Hill? Where was Castle Haven? Ethel, sucking on a piece of hard bread, crawled from Gail’s lap to Jenny’s and poked a soggy bit of bread from her mouth into Jenny’s mouth. “Yuk,” Jenny said, squeezing the baby.
They drove around for more than an hour and it was all the same. No Castle Haven. No old people’s home. Jenny slid down in the seat. She had been so tense with expectation that now her back ached. Could Gail have been lying to her? She didn’t know what to think, but began to let herself hope that it had all been a threat, a terrible moment of anger on her pa
rents’ part that was now dissipated. Relief made her feel giddy, and sorry, too, that she’d wasted a whole afternoon away from Grandpa. Oh, well, there would be more afternoons, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday to spend with him while her parents and Gail drove around looking at houses and fences and barbeque pits. She tickled Ethel, making a horrible face, crossing her eyes to amuse the baby, and making her laugh so hard that she hiccuped. “Ja, Ja!” she cried, smacking Jenny on the face.
Mrs. Pennoyer turned around. “Jenny, don’t excite the baby so much.”
“She loves it.”
“Do you have to disagree with everything?” Mrs. Pennoyer said. And just then Mr. Pennoyer turned the car into a driveway and stopped. They were at the bottom of a graveled walk that led to a tall, green three-story house. There were a dozen empty green rockers on the wide front porch, and a maple tree with yellowish green leaves cast shade over the yard. There were a few empty metal chairs on the lawn, and a metal sign hanging from a metal post. “Castle Haven. Visiting Hours, 2-4 P.M., and 7-9 P.M. Monday-Sunday. Mrs. Burr McCarthy, R.N., Prop.”
Jenny’s stomach heaved. The sun shining on the metal sign was reflected into her eyes.
“… father and I are going in here to talk to Mrs. McCarthy,” Mrs. Pennoyer was saying. She touched her hair. “You girls can wait in the car for us. Or maybe you’d rather take Ethel out on the lawn.”
Mr. Pennoyer pocketed the ignition key and pulled down the rearview mirror to check his appearance. He ran his hand over his hair. “We won’t be long.” He got out of the car.
Jenny tumbled out after them. “Wait, I’m coming with you—”
Her father stopped. “You don’t want to come in here,” he said.
Her mother looked up at the sky, then back at the car. “Gail,” she called, “it’s so nice. Take Ethel out, let her play on the lawn.” Then to Jenny, “You help Gail watch Ethel.”
“I’m coming with you. In there.”
“Frank,” Mrs. Pennoyer said. “Talk to your daughter.”
Her father put his hand on his bald spot. “Jenny, there’s nothing in there for you. Just a lot of old people. We’re going to talk to Mrs. McCarthy, see what the place is like.”
“It’s for Grandpa,” Jenny said. “You want to put him away in this place.”
“Not put him away!” Mr. Pennoyer kicked at the gravel. “We’re thinking about this place for Grandpa to live. We heard good things about it. It’s got an excellent reputation.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. “I hear the food is first class.”
“Oh, Dad-don’t,” Jenny said. “Please don’t …”
Mr. Pennoyer folded his handkerchief, then stuffed it back into his pocket. “Now, listen, Jenny, it’s my own father. I’ve got respect for him and I don’t like this any better than you do, but it’s got to be done. We can’t consider just one man, we’ve got a whole family to think about. Now, why don’t you go back to the car and wait for your mother and me?”
She followed them up the walk. Her father turned. “I’m telling you to quit this, Jenny. Stay out here. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Grandpa has to do with me.” She tried to speak softly. “I have to see this place. Don’t you understand?” Despite herself, her voice rose, her cheeks swelled, and she was afraid she’d cry.
“Frank …” Her mother touched her father’s arm. “Maybe it’s a good idea for her to come in. Let her see. It’s nice in there, she can see for herself we’re only trying to do something good for Grandpa.”
On the porch her father pressed the button on the side of the door. Jenny heard the chimes sound. Then a woman in a white uniform and white crepe-soled shoes opened the door. “Come in,” she said, “it’s visiting hours, you can walk right in. The door’s always open.”
“We want to speak to Mrs. McCarthy,” Jenny’s mother said. “We have an appointment.” When she stood straight she was taller than Jenny’s father. “It’s about someone—a person—that is, my father-in-law, coming into the Home.”
In the hall where they waited there were two high windows over the door, a staircase on one side, and on the other side a long row of metal hooks with coats and jackets hanging from them. Over each hook was a number. To the right there were double wooden doors, slightly ajar. Jenny looked into an enormously long room with tall windows, stuffed with couches, chairs, tables, and lamps. At the far end of the room several people clustered around a big color TV set showing a cowboy movie. In a gray upholstered chair, her head slumped down on her chest, a woman with sparse white hair was sleeping; near the door an old man wearing a plaid golfing cap and a bright red sweater was sitting with his hands folded. Seeing Jenny, he smiled.
“Hi,” she said. There was a dim drowsy haze and hush in the room.
A woman in a white uniform walked up to Mr. Pennoyer and shook his hand. “How do you do? I am Mrs. Burr McCarthy.” She had a scrubbed look and smelled of soap. “Won’t you come into my office?” She held open a door that Jenny hadn’t noticed before, and they filed in ahead of her.
Mrs. McCarthy sat down behind a desk littered with papers. “Sit down, please. Mrs. Pennoyer, take that chair. Make yourselves comfortable.” Jenny stood beside the window that overlooked the porch.
“This is a lovely place,” Mrs. Pennoyer said. “Even this room …”
Mrs. McCarthy sat ramrod straight behind her desk, her clean hands folded neatly on the desk. “We think we have an unusual Home. This house used to be part of the Westwood estate. It was built for the millionaire Cyrus Westwood—he made his money in toothpaste, you know. Very fine people. He had this house built to his exact specifications. I’m proud to say it’s as sound as the day it was built. We have fifteen bedrooms in our Home, a large forty-foot living room, and a dining room that easily seats our entire Family. Now, I take it you’re here to discuss a placement? A dear one you would like to bring into our Family?”
“My father,” Mr. Pennoyer said, clearing his throat. “He’s eighty-three, and he’s getting on—”
“We’ve cared for him for thirteen years,” Mrs. Pennoyer said. She wet her lips. “Lately, it’s just getting to be too much.”
“I understand,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “Let me assure you that our people receive the best care here. I’m a registered nurse, I have two practical nurses on my staff, and we have the services of a physician. We meet all state standards of health care. Is your father senile?”
“No, he’s not!” Jenny said.
“Jenny,” her father said warningly.
“Well—he may be tending that way,” Mrs. Pennoyer said.
“Of course. It’s the age,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “When we get that old, we all have to be looked after. Does he exhibit any strongly anti-social behavior such as temper tantrums, willfulness, or bedwetting?”
“He’s not very strong,” Mrs. Pennoyer said. “Has to be watched. It’s a strain …” Her voice dropped off.
Mrs. McCarthy reached to one side of her desk and, opening a drawer, took out a long printed booklet. She handed it to Mr. Pennoyer. “In this booklet we explain our rules and standards of conduct for our Family. At the back you’ll find a schedule of our rates.”
Jenny’s heart was beating frantically inside her chest. Until this moment she still hadn’t quite believed it. Now it was real—as real as the printed booklet with the schedule of rates that her father was reading.
“Everyone in our Family has a complete health and personality file,” Mrs. McCarthy said. She pointed to the large green file at her back. “We number code all our special diets. The chairs in the living room are numbered, so each resident has his own chair. It makes them feel more secure and cuts down on the bickering. I don’t like bickering among my old people. I like them to be serene and happy in their twilight years. We like to think of this as a happy, happy place.”
Mr. Pennoyer loosened his collar. “My father likes to take walks, read newspapers. He’s actually very alert.”
“Well, of course,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “Everybody’s different. Some of our oldsters are happy playing cards, or watching TV, or knitting. We have writers here, too. Yes, we do! Mr. Munk writes letters to the papers every single day, and he’s so expressive. And Mrs. Rothman is in the garden weeding and raking every chance she gets. We have some very active old people.
“Of course we have the others. You know, the ones who just sit. They’re sweet, too. Some of them talk about things that happened so long ago as if those things are really happening right now. We don’t object to that, if the resident is happy thinking that way, but sometimes we have to have reality therapy. For instance, one of our ladies, Mrs. Cloud, always likes to talk about her mother and the things her mother had given her. Well, that’s harmless, you see, but when Mrs. Cloud began talking about her mother coming to visit, we decided she needed some reality therapy. Mrs. Cloud is ninety-two, so naturally her mother isn’t visiting her. We told her firmly that her mother was dead, and we reminded her just when her mother died. I have all that information in my files.”
Mrs. McCarthy cast a contented look at the metal cabinets. “If you decide to make your father one of our Family, then we’ll ask you a lot of questions. His hobbies, interests, idiosyncrasies. All to help make his stay with us serene and happy.” She stood up. “I hope I’ve answered most of your questions.”
She led the way to the hall and they all followed her. “I think we’d like to see the facilities,” Mrs. Pennoyer said. “Wouldn’t we, Frank?”
From down the hall under the staircase there were kitchen sounds—pots clattering, water running—and in the air, the smell of creamed corn.
Mrs. McCarthy pushed the double wooden doors wide. “This is our living room, some of our modern folks call it the community room. Hello, everyone!” Her voice rose in pitch. “How are you, honey,” she said to the white-haired woman that Jenny had noticed before. The woman blinked rapidly.
“Mrs. McCarthy, my son didn’t come see me today. He promised he’d come.”
Mrs. McCarthy patted her hand. “I’m sorry, honey. Did you enjoy the ice cream today? Did you ask for doubles, honey?” She moved on to an old man sitting in a chair with a wool plaid blanket across his legs. “How’s my baby boy?” The old man had a big Adam’s apple and thin knobby hands. Mrs. McCarthy took a tissue from her pocket and wiped his mouth. “Now you be a good boy,” she said, “don’t get the girls all fussed up the way you did yesterday.”
A Figure of Speech Page 9
