by Maria Flook
A receptionist in a tight lavender sweater-dress announced their arrival. Holly watched Munro follow the woman’s curves in a quick appraisal. The assistant director stood up from a deep mahogany table to greet them. “Dick Snyder,” he said. It had a slimy ring. He shook Holly’s hand, mistaking her for Rennie’s daughter.
“Oh, I’m not her daughter,” Holly said.
“You’re not the daughter?” Dick Snyder said. He squinted at Holly for a fraction of a second, as if to rethread a needle.
After that, he made efforts to address her in conversation although he had dismissed her importance. He concentrated on Rennie and her son, seating them in mauve leather chairs at the giant table. The conference table reminded Holly of the time she sat down with her lawyer to fill out the divorce papers. These glossy table leaves in lawyers’ offices never saw food, but Holly visualized a large family at the archetypal dinner table, its initial presentation, several course additions, up until some unexpected debacle.
Snyder began with a few simple statements that he believed would assure anyone. “Château-sur-Mer is a member of the American Association of Homes for the Aging—”
Rennie said. “What kind of membership is that? Does that rank up there with my Sierra Club?”
Snyder wasn’t disturbed by her remark. “Well, let’s see what you think. We’ll look at the pictures. Pictures are worth a thousand words, isn’t that the saying?”
Rennie said, “That’s one we haven’t heard before.” She rolled her eyes.
He lifted a large, embossed photograph album from a stack. He opened the book to a full-color aerial photograph of the retirement complex. He started at the top of each laminated page and pushed his index finger down the margin, directing their attention to every detail. He discussed the heated swimming pool, pointing to the chrome ladders; he told them about the clubhouse with two separate lounges, game rooms, exercise rooms with treadmills and Stairmasters. The pavilion, the sunken theater, the library rooms with overstuffed chairs and hassocks so residents could elevate their feet while reading. “For important circulation,” he said.
“Library circulation?” Rennie said.
Snyder lifted his face and grinned in her direction.
“Remember that for your next customer,” Rennie told him.
The outdoor recreational facilities included tennis courts, grass and clay. Two boccie courts. Horseshoe courts. Croquet court. “Croquet is getting to be a favorite, we might expand it to the side lawn—”
“What about shuffleboard?” Rennie asked.
He looked at her, trying to gauge her level of resentment. She might have had a serious interest in shuffleboard, but he already knew she was getting prickly.
Rennie stared down at the plastic-coated pages.
Holly understood the sales pitch. It was the same when you went to buy a car, the salesmen relied on the literature. Even preachers who know the word of the Lord, backward and forward, carry their leather-bound copies. If it’s in writing, it increases in dimension.
Rennie’s grand Victorian manse, with its rusty shutter hooks and peeling paint, made these new apartment interiors look as slick and unbelievable as the glossy perfume ads in fashion magazines. Snyder said, “Of course we offer Handymaid Services, Mini Bus Transportation, full parking. We have recreational-vehicle parking. Do you own a recreational vehicle? Many of our residents have travel homes—”
Munro said, “No, she doesn’t travel that much. Not anymore.”
Rennie nodded in agreement. “I really don’t go an inch.”
Snyder described every room in detail, ending his presentation with a description of the bathroom. “Tubs have grab bars. Shower stall has nonslip waffle texture. Towel bars with heat switch—”
Holly said, “Heated towels? Shit. Just like Leona.”
The salesman was startled but he maintained his evenness.
Munro heard Holly’s remark and he crossed his arms, tucking the palms of his hands under the armpits of his jacket as if he might have wanted to strike her. Snyder speeded up the presentation and showed them an entire book devoted to Château-sur-Mer’s medical facilities. He called it “Guaranteed Life Care.” It meant, quite simply, that there was always a bed reserved in the infirmary for each resident. “These are luxury quarters,” he told them. “In health or sickness, luxury is a constant.”
“I’ve got my living will. I won’t need these fancy digs.” Rennie announced.
Snyder nodded. “It’s good to have a living will, Miss Hopkins, but sometimes people change their minds at the last minute. They want to keep going.”
Rennie looked out the window at the fog coming in off the water, long, thick tails of it like polyester filling.
Holly picked up one of the application sheets from the table. It was a medical questionnaire of some kind. She began to read it halfway down the page.
Rennie saw the questionnaire too. “The end of the line for the Little Red Trolley,” she said to Holly.
Munro collected the sheet of paper from Holly’s hand and brushed her wrist back into her lap. He squeezed her hand, keeping it in her lap. “Behave yourself,” he told her.
The tour included a visit to an occupied apartment. Snyder explained that the gentleman who lived in the unit received a decrease in his monthly maintenance fee by agreeing to show his apartment. His unit had a spectacular view, dead square at the elbow of the Cliff Walk, right above the historic old Tea House Pagoda perched on a ledge of rock. If it wasn’t for this selling point, Snyder might not have bothered with the bristly resident who followed them from room to room. “Closet space galore,” Snyder said.
“Can anyone reach the top shelf? Want to try it? Who wants to volunteer?” the stranger said.
“Waste disposal and trash compactor. Built in,” Dick Snyder said.
“I need a compactor for my S.S. Pierce sardine tin. I don’t have the strength to crush it. Christ.”
Rennie started to laugh at the man’s bitter remarks.
“Everyone has full cable hookup.”
“I should be Ted Turner,” the man said, with great theater, as if he had recited the remark in the same way, every day, for months. “We were born too soon, weren’t we?” he said to Rennie. “Before fiber optics. Before satellites.” This, too, was well rehearsed.
“What did you do for a living?” Rennie asked him.
“I ran a little paper mill over in Westerly. The paper went to Connecticut Valley Envelope Company, exclusively. They produce window envelopes for banks, other banking supplies.”
“My son is in the banking business, he probably uses those window envelopes, don’t you, Munro?”
“No. That would be regular bank operations. My department does not use window envelopes.”
“He’s got watermarks on his stationery. A big shot,” Rennie said about Munro.
“You’re telling me,” the man said. He stepped up closer to Rennie. He looked at her. “Just who am I talking to?” he said to her. “Do you mind if I take a closer look?”
Rennie was trying to gauge the absurd question.
The man went over to a desk drawer and took out a magnifying glass, a large blurry lens with a long SureGrip handle. It was the kind of tool poor-sighted individuals might use to read the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal. The man waved the glass up and down Rennie, then kept it six inches from her face. He squinted through its warped circle. He saw her.
“You’re an attractive woman.”
“Listen to this,” Rennie said.
“I’m not a pushover. I’m particular,” he told her. “Your eyes are nice.”
“In a coon’s ass,” Rennie said. “Did you have cataract surgery? Did they leave the stitches in too long?”
The group laughed in nervousness, a simultaneous release of disguised emotions, almost like something in an Up with People grande finale. It was all that was necessary and they left the man’s apartment to go inspect the dining hall.
Once or twice, Holl
y noticed the way Rennie studied a detail, as if she was really looking through a window into another life. More than usual, Rennie appeared physically frail. Her ankle wobbled on the uneven pavers and she didn’t recover her balance as quickly as she might have. The next moment she was trying to prove her pep, stooping to pick up a pine cone and sailing the sticky pod at a catbird perched along the second-floor eaves. Holly was surprised to see the eccentric man at his window. He was pantomiming a scene, jerking an invisible rope around his neck, as if struggling with a noose. Snyder guided Rennie ahead. Holly kept watching. It was a disturbing sight because the man didn’t stop when they acknowledged him. He wasn’t interested in the audience reaction. He stood at his window and jerked the invisible rope; his tongue protruded, waggled for air.
They stopped inside the building that housed the formal dining rooms. They waited before a velveteen signboard that listed the luncheon entrees.
“It’s all so programmed.” Rennie turned to Munro. “I don’t always eat at the same hour. I don’t rise and shine with the crowd.”
“Someday you will appreciate that, you’ll be grateful for a schedule,” Munro told her.
“You’re stampeding me,” Rennie said.
Snyder was becoming impatient. He didn’t see a sale looming on the horizon any longer and he excused himself when someone called him away.
Munro turned to Holly. “Could I see you for a minute?”
He walked into the empty dining room and turned around to see if Holly was coming in there.
“What does he want?” Holly asked Rennie.
“He just wants to complain about me to someone. Go ahead.”
Rennie sat down in a wing chair and Holly went into the dining room. Munro pulled her wrist until she was out of view of his mother. They walked behind a big table already set with a new white cloth, flatware, and bowls of low-fat imitation butter pats. “I thought you were going to help me,” he said.
“I never said I was helping you—”
“Do you have any common sense? She’s a sick woman.”
Holly picked up a gleaming silver-plate salt shaker and turned it over. The white grains started to sift onto the white tablecloth. She pulled it up and unscrewed its cap. Again, she poured it out. The salt spilled, an instant gritty mound. She lifted the pepper shaker. Munro grabbed her wrist.
“You’re just what I thought. A nut case. Listen to me. My wife doesn’t want her living with us. You understand? I’m between a rock and a hard place.”
Holly didn’t believe that Munro was worried about his wife; he looked like someone who knew how to juggle women. Perhaps he had a wife and a lover and he didn’t also need his mother. She was having these skimming thoughts and before she knew it, he was cupping the ends of her shoulder-length hair. He was crushing her hair in his hands.
“Mercy,” he said. “Just give us a little mercy.”
Who was he talking for? He might have meant, give a mother and her son some help, but Munro had edged closer in a sudden wave of heat that made her spring backward, out of his way.
“What are you trying here?” she said.
“Tell me if you aren’t interested.”
“What?”
“Don’t rush. Just tell me if I’m wrong. I’ve seen you—” He meant that he had seen her, a woman alone in her spare arrangements. Maybe he knew about Willis. She studied his fingers for any trace of the silver spray paint. His fingers were clean and pink. He watched her carefully. Perhaps he was thinking she was pathetic and just a bit of trouble to get around.
“You’re just as crazy as your brother,” she said, testing it out. She hated herself for her sudden ridicule of Willis.
Munro took her elbow and walked her out to where Rennie was sitting. Residents were beginning to show up for lunch, and Rennie was watching the parade of strangers. Most of the crowd looked vigorous and at ease. Then a row of oldsters arrived in wheelchairs. Two stooped ladies hobbled through the lobby with aluminum walkers.
“We have to skip lunch,” Holly said. “I feel sick.”
Rennie brightened. “You probably caught something here. These places are hotbeds for germs.”
Holly pulled Rennie out of the dining room. Dick Snyder was missing from sight and he didn’t try to retrieve them. Munro stood on the sidewalk and watched as Holly put Rennie in the car.
“It was very educational,” Rennie told her son. “It was good hands-on experience.” Rennie adjusted the sun visor and leaned back in the seat.
Munro ignored his mother and told Holly, directly, that he appreciated her help. He would be in touch. He was smiling at her, but she didn’t let on that she felt his threat.
Holly drove back to the house. She stopped on the road and reached into her mailbox. She found an airmail letter from Jensen. She tore the frail tissue envelope while the car idled. Inside the envelope was a tiny bean with an ivory stopper. She tugged it open expecting the usual elephant carvings, but the tiny ivory shavings were startling. The glistening flecks of tusk were perfectly carved phalluses. Miniature bones with swollen heads. “That lewd creep,” she said.
Rennie pressed her fingertip against Holly’s palm to lift one of the carvings up to her eye. “Cobra,” Rennie said.
“You mean these are snakes? Are you sure?” Maybe Rennie was correct. Whatever it was, Jensen was continuing his harangue from abroad. The flecks of horn were difficult to collect and return to the little bean. Rennie watched as Holly pulled her fingertip across the tiny opening until each flake was deposited. Then Holly walked Rennie up the steep porch stairs. She waited for Rennie to rest and catch her breath before she put her key in the door. Rennie weaved slightly, like someone three sheets to the wind, but she was just exhausted. Holly told her, “Maybe you should eat something. It’s two o’clock.”
“Too tired to eat.”
“I’ll put the tea kettle on anyway.” She walked over to Rennie’s big white stove and turned the knob. Nothing happened.
“Matches are in the can,” Rennie told her.
Holly struck a match and dabbed it at the black circle until the gas ignited one side, then it traveled around, making a complete halo of blue flame. “I have to be at work in an hour. It’s my turn to do Pizza Night.”
“It’s your turn? Well, go ahead. Go home. You need to retrieve your wits for something like that. Pizza Night.”
Rennie sat down in her chair. She was staring at the afternoon sunshine coming in the fanlight, her eyes losing focus. She wasn’t falling asleep; she seemed to be studying an internal thread that Holly couldn’t gauge.
Holly gave Rennie a mug of tea and a bottle of pickled herring. Rennie couldn’t twist the rusted cap. Holly tried it. Then Holly found a bottle of Scotch in the pantry and poured one golden inch into a juice glass for herself. “Want some of this?” she asked Rennie. Rennie declined.
“Have some herring,” Rennie said.
Holly sat down across from Rennie and used a fork to stab the contents of the bottle. Together, they ate the cold, winey fish from scalloped Spode saucers.
Chapter Twelve
The same morning Rennie toured Château-sur-Mer, Willis went into Fall River a second time with Fritz. Fritz was supposed to pick up a fax machine at Circuit City and deliver it to Showalter’s InstyPrint franchise. It was a regular courier job, but Showalter asked to see Willis. “It’s some kind of power meeting,” Fritz said. “You don’t have to show up.”
“I’ll hear it,” Willis said. “Just don’t forget me.”
“I’m back in ten minutes, okay? I’ll turn around and deadhead right back here to get you.”
“Don’t speed. Don’t get stopped in this town. They red tape every moving violation. It’s Mayberry, New England.”
“I know that,” Fritz said.
Willis felt a little tingle in the soles of his feet coming into Fall River. It was the town in which Wydette had choked to death and he often went the long way around to miss that stretch of Route 24 coming into the city. H
is breathing was halting in frozen drifts. They drove past the old knitting mills, big empty textile factories where every sweater he had worn in childhood had been purchased discounted.
Fritz let Willis off at Showalter’s house and he took Rennie’s car to deliver the fax machine at the franchise. Showalter met Willis at the door and cupped Willis’s elbow, leading him across the foyer. The hand on his elbow felt spidery, a slight yet perceptible clawing. He shrugged his arm loose.
“You are the missing piece of my puzzle,” Showalter told him.
“How is that?”
“You’re a capable person. You’re switched on.”
“Is that right?” Willis said. “Are we talking about parrots again or that four-eyes operation?”
“You’re no nonsense. Just what I want.”
Willis waited until Showalter was finished dishing out the applesauce.
Showalter sat down at a long desk. The wide desktop had buttery leather veneer embossed with straight lines of glittery gold fleurs-de-lis. There was nothing on the desk. It looked big as a double bed.
“Let’s go back to these stereoscopes.”
“Let’s go back?”
“It turns out Federico looks a little scrawny. Fritz should try to bulk up. After his principal asset, he’s a little too skinny for someone’s normal taste—”
“I’m not interested in that line of work.” Willis stood up.
“That’s fine, that’s fine. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got something else for you. Some exotics sitting in Fairfield.”
“Connecticut? All the way down there?”
“Just a couple hours from here, really. You’ll take my vehicle.”
“What’s wrong with my car?”
