by William Poe
Odors from isopropyl alcohol and catheter bags stirred the air in a mix that accosted Simon’s sense of smell as he walked through the doors of the ICU. The older nurse—Miss Beckett, according to her nametag—rushed ahead to open the door to room 105.
“Hi, hon.” Vivian spoke lucidly, revived by wonder drugs. “I sure did mess up breakfast, didn’t I?”
“Vivian, Mother.” Simon bent over the bedrail to kiss Vivian on the cheek. “You didn’t mess up anything. Whatever you need, Thad and I are here for you.”
Vivian struggled to rise up, bracing on her good arm, and gazed past Nurse Beckett. “Where is Thad? Didn’t he come with you?” Then a new worry. “Is Cicero all right?”
“They told us visits were limited to family. Thad’s in the waiting room getting in touch with Connie. Little Cicero is at the mansion. He’s okay, but he sure knew something was wrong. I’ve never seen such a distraught look on his little mug.”
“Go tell Thad to come to this room,” Vivian insisted, staring with laser-like precision at Nurse Beckett.
Nurse Beckett started to say something, but Vivian’s glare made her think twice.
“That boy is as much family as anyone,” Vivian said in a voice as coherent as she had managed in months. “He’s with my son, and I won’t have him sitting in no waiting room. You tell him to come back here right now.”
Vivian turned from Nurse Beckett to look at Simon. “Don’t take me for a blind person, son. I know what Thad means to you.” Then, addressing Nurse Beckett, who had not yet complied, “You get him back here, I said.”
Nurse Beckett left the room, but Simon noticed that she headed in the opposite direction from the waiting room. Simon went to retrieve Thad.
“Connie’s on her way,” Thad confirmed, just hanging up the pay phone.
“You better get back there to see Vivian.”
“But they said no one but family.”
“And Vivian set them straight about that.”
“Really?”
“She called you family, so get back there.”
Thad rushed ahead of Simon as they entered the corridor.
“How’s my Days of Our Lives buddy?” Vivian asked as Thad entered the room. She tried to smile, but her face refused to conform.
Thad took Vivian’s hand as tears formed. Simon placed his arm around Thad’s waist. Vivian turned away, but not conspicuously.
“I’m just set in my ways,” Vivian said, by way of admission.
During Simon’s childhood, he had never seen Vivian and Lenny show affection to one another, so he imagined her reaction might be the same even if he had been there with Masako.
Thad bent over the side rail and kissed Vivian on the forehead. “You’re like a mother to me. I’d never do anything to embarrass you.”
“I’m glad Connie didn’t poison your mind against Thad and me,” Simon risked saying.
“Your sister has always had a mean streak,” Vivian sighed. “I’m afraid Cheryl and Victoria are going to be trouble. Derek tries too hard to control those girls with his preaching about what’s right and wrong.”
“I can’t believe you said that,” Simon laughed. “I always figured you agreed with Connie and Derek, at least Derek’s preaching against what I was doing.”
“The Bible says there will be false prophets,” Vivian pointed out. “That Korean’s not the first, and he won’t be the last, but I didn’t like Connie and Derek going around saying bad things about what you were doing. They should mind their own business and take care of their own family. The Lord God can take care of himself.”
As if on cue, Connie appeared at the door. If she had heard what Vivian said, she made no comment.
“Are you feeling better?” Connie asked, marching toward Vivian and taking her hand to examine the swath of tape holding an IV needle in place, then checking the pulse oximeter clipped on her index finger. “Your hands are ice cold.”
“Probably the blood thinners,” Simon suggested.
“Vivian looks tired,” Connie observed. “We should leave her to get some rest.”
“I’m fine,” Vivian interrupted. “Don’t talk like I’m not here.”
“You’re right.” Connie turned to address Simon. “I’m surprised to see Thad here in the room. I thought they only allowed family.”
Thad and Simon laughed as Connie shot them a stern look.
Vivian rescued the moment. “I told the nurse to let Thad come to my room. She knew better than to defy me.”
“Then I’m glad they obliged you. How are you, Thad?”
Thad nodded as if to say fine, as he took Vivian’s hand and cupped her fingers between his palms to warm them. “When you come home, I’m going to fix you eggs and toast soaked in that good honey you like so much. We thought it was gone, but I found a jar in the basement the other day.”
Vivian looked at Connie. “Why don’t you warm the other hand the way Thad’s doing?”
“This is ridiculous,” Connie snapped, placing the sheet over Vivian’s hand. “Why is Thad here?”
“We’re in love, Connie. Why do you think Thad’s here?” Simon’s statement might have been more direct than Vivian wanted to hear, but he had grown tired of protecting Connie from herself. “It’s sin, Connie, worse than the Antichrist. Now you can go tell people your brother is a sodomite.”
“That’s enough, you two,” Vivian said as loudly as she could muster.
Dr. Small and Nurse Beckett rushed into the room. “Mrs. Powell’s vital signs triggered an alert. We need to examine her. If you can please return to the waiting room.”
Simon and Thad followed Connie down the hall, each finding a seat. Connie sat near a table lamp, retrieving a paperback detective novel from her purse, Thad sat glumly at one end of the sofa, and Simon, unable to control his worries, paced the floor.
Dr. Small came from the ICU. Connie’s book dropped to the floor as the group braced for his news.
“We need to keep your mother longer than we hoped,” Dr. Small reported. “Despite the medicines, she had another stroke after you left the room.”
“Oh God,” Simon cried. “Did we upset her? Is that what did it?”
“Mrs. Powell’s blood pressure has been elevated since she arrived. The medicines helped to a degree, but it wasn’t enough.”
“How bad is it?” Connie asked.
“Over the next few days, we’ll run tests. If we find blockage in an artery, we can relieve it with a stent.”
Thad rose from the sofa and leaned against a wall, wrapping his arms around his shoulders in a self-embrace.
“For now, Mrs. Powell needs to rest,” Dr. Small explained. “I suggest you come back tomorrow. The hospital will call if there is any change.”
“Could something happen?” Simon asked.
“Mrs. Powell is stable, and we’ll be monitoring her closely.”
A dark mood followed Connie, Thad, and Simon to the hospital entrance.
“I’d like to stay,” Thad said. “I don’t mind dozing on the couch. That way I can call if there’s any news.”
Connie, who had reacted so harshly toward Thad earlier, now looked at him differently. “You really love Vivian, don’t you?”
“My parents pretty much kicked me out of the house when I was a teenager. Vivian treats me with respect—and so does Simon. I love your brother.”
Connie swallowed hard, her heavily mascaraed eyes beginning to water, her posture becoming less rigid. She hugged Simon, then hugged Thad, and sighed. “It takes some getting used to, but I’ll adjust. Thad, if you need me to relieve you, telephone, okay?”
“I will,” Thad agreed.
Connie walked toward her car, which she’d parked in an area dotted with islands of redbud and dogwood trees, the pleasant spring air serving as a reminder of nature’s indifference to human misery.
When Connie drove away, Simon said to Thad, “I’m not sure the doctor will tell you if there’s a change, considering their policy about family me
mbers and all.”
“I’ll say that I am supposed to call you if there is anything to report. I can see room 105 through the window on the ICU doors, and I plan to keep a close eye.”
“I hate hospitals, or I would stay with you, Thad. I’ve felt like escaping ever since we got here. Too many memories.”
“I know,” Thad said, looking around to make sure no one was looking before giving Simon a quick kiss. “Your father, I know.”
“Lenny died a few doors from where they put Vivian.”
“I understand, Simon.” Thad squeezed Simon’s hand. “Take care of Cicero. He must be going crazy.”
Simon walked toward the front door of the mansion, illuminated against the darkness by the porch light, the Doric columns fangs to a hellmouth waiting to swallow those who entered. Simon stopped, dreading the emptiness of the house, and headed toward the swing, gently pushing the tire, causing it to twirl in the light wind, swinging just like the body of his ancestor must have swung on the fateful day of his death. Simon stopped the swing and sat, kicking sand into the air the way Cheryl and Victoria often had when playing on the swing as young children. The limb above, larger than a man’s thigh, creaked as the rope pulled taut against his weight. Was it the same branch used by the marauders to hang James Thomas Powell? Simon had once searched newspaper archives for mention of the JT’s hanging but found nothing. When he commented on the lack of evidence to Lenny, his father had said with a shrug, “Don’t matter.” The family knew it was true.
“A family is defined by its history,” Lenny’s brother had once told Simon. “You need to listen to what the stories are telling you.” Simon wondered if his own tale might one day weave itself into the family saga.
Upon Vivian’s death, title to the mansion would transfer to Simon, Connie having long refused to even consider taking responsibility for the place. Simon would not be allowed to sell the mansion, or in any other way dispose of the property, without gaining the signatures of all JT’s living descendants. Money for the mansion’s upkeep had been put in trust by JT’s children, but it could not be accessed without everyone’s agreement on what it should be used for. Half the relatives wanted the money to be used for demolition and rebuilding, while the other half wanted the mansion preserved. JT had considered the house as much a part of the family as the people living within its walls. The Powell legacy and the mansion were one. Simon would never be free as long as the mansion stood.
Simon walked across the heavily packed red dirt of the roadway in front of the mansion. Under the brightness of a mercury vapor lamp, installed years earlier to illuminate the family cemetery in hopes of deterring vandals, the granite and marble headstones seemed to glow with their own light. The Powell cemetery had been established during pioneer times, when a wagon train had brought settlers, most related by blood or marriage, on the arduous trip from Alabama. Simon started toward Lenny’s grave but stopped. He was not ready to forgive Lenny for making Vivian’s life so miserable, for never supporting anything Simon wanted to do. JT had died in 1866, a date scratched below initials on the slate plaque marking his grave. Standing before it, Simon wondered again about the truth of the hanging. Perhaps Lenny’s brother had been right: the story we tell ourselves is what matters.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dr. Small’s prognosis had been correct; tests revealed blockage in Vivian’s carotid artery, which a stent could open, likely preventing a significant stroke, but it couldn’t reverse damage already suffered. Vivian’s most recent stroke had turned out to be considerable, affecting motor skills in her legs and further limiting mobility in her arms. Connie and Simon came to common purpose when contemplating the need to place Vivian in Bobwhite Convalescent Center, the same facility where Mandy had spent the final period of her life, years Simon vividly recalled from his frequent visits to see his grandmother.
Every day, Vivian had dropped off clean clothes for Mandy on her way to work, having washed them the evening before as a way of saving money by not utilizing Bobwhite’s expensive laundry service. The smell of ammonia, rubbing alcohol and cleaning solutions, accosted visitors upon entering the nursing home in those days. State regulations had forced improvements, helping to prevent the unpleasant odors, but Bobwhite’s cinder-block construction, colorless tile floors, and narrow windows with dirty white blinds continued to make the place unmistakably a warehouse for those approaching life’s end.
Connie, Thad, and Simon met at Bobwhite to be with Vivian on her first night. Derek came as well, having recovered from his cough during the two weeks since the night of Vivian’s stroke. Derek and Simon had once thought of each other as brothers, not just brothers-in-law, having met when Simon was in second grade. When Simon had dedicated himself to Sun Myung Moon, a man whose mission, Simon believed, was to complete the work of Jesus and build the kingdom of heaven on earth, Derek had become fanatically Christian, crusading against apostasies such as Sun Myung Moon’s theology. Simon’s current rejection of Christianity deeply concerned Derek, who told Simon on several occasions that he had faith Simon would accept Jesus at some point in his life, arguing that while he was not clever enough to confront the logic of the science in which Simon placed his own faith, “The Lord will work his will.” Simon had little to say in response, generally replying, “We’ll see.”
“I understand you’re returning to California,” Derek said, addressing Thad as they signed the visitors’ log at Bobwhite’s reception desk.
“I have to get back for my job,” Thad responded. “I’m supposed to be there already, but I couldn’t leave until I knew Vivian was okay.”
“That’s kind of you,” Derek said politely but without affection. “But the family has matters under control.”
Thad shot Simon a look that stopped him from jumping into the conversation.
“What do you do, exactly?” Connie asked.
“I work for a company that makes videos. I’m one of the sound-effects guys.”
“That must be interesting,” Derek said.
“Are you still selling films?” Connie asked, turning to Simon.
“It’s been tough making sales since I started college, and without anyone in Hollywood to manage the customs brokers and all, but I’ve made a few contracts.”
“What about Thad? Can’t he help while he’s in California?”
“It’s not like that, Connie. The people I deal with expect to work with someone they know.”
“Let’s go in to see Vivian,” Derek suggested, weary of the small talk.
Once winsome and athletic, Derek now hid his weight beneath oversized shirts, and when anyone commented on his baldness, despite a comb-over, he would say he was prematurely bald, “something that comes from the maternal grandfather,” as if otherwise baldness reflected on a person’s lifestyle.
Derek proceeded into Vivian’s room first, followed by Connie and Thad. Simon held back. The short visits with Vivian after the operation made it clear how debilitated she had become. Simon knew that seeing his mother at Bobwhite would bring back memories of the miserable conditions Mandy had endured.
The strong presence that had informed Nurse Beckett that Thad was family had left Vivian’s body. She was now a defeated shell whose shoulders drooped, slumped in a wheelchair, knees touching as if bound together, legs shifted to one side.
“Vivian,” Simon muttered, kneeling to put himself at eye level. “Mother?”
Vivian lifted her chin from her chest, eyes communicating a vague sense of recognition. Simon rushed toward the door, denying the tears that wet his cheeks. Thad wrapped his arm around Simon’s waist and took him to the car.
“Don’t think badly of me, Thad.”
“Never, Simon. We had a family—I had a family—but now it’s lost.”
“Being at the mansion without Vivian might be more than I can handle.”
“Do you want me to stay another few days? I can change the plane ticket.”
“You should go. Howard is expecting you back.�
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“Yeah, he almost found someone else when I didn’t go back when I said I would.”
“Can you imagine if Connie and Derek found out what you do actually do?”
“Don’t you dare tell Connie or Derek,” Thad chortled. “You’d love using me to give Connie a shock. I know how you are.”
Images of a closeted Derek secretly buying one of Howard’s videos drifted through Simon’s thoughts. “Let’s hope Derek is as straight as he looks and that he never sees one of those videos.”
“Even if he did—God, why did you put that image in my mind?—he’d never know I was involved. None of the postproduction workers are listed in the credits. And no one’s real name is used anyway.”
“Once, when I was taking out the trash for Connie, I spotted a receipt from Little Rock’s only adult bookstore. I think they might experiment beyond the missionary position, despite their traditional values. You never know.”
“Not something I want to think about on my way back to LA, thank you,” Thad laughed.
“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s change the subject.”
“Let’s do some experimenting of our own.” Thad smiled. “This will be our last night together for a while. And we will have the mansion to ourselves.”
They made the most of it, happily resting in each other’s arms, enjoying the simple act of watching television without worrying that Vivian would see them showing affection. Cicero seemed puzzled at Vivian’s absence, but he enjoyed snuggling with them, and when Simon and Thad went upstairs, he held a vigil on Vivian’s bed.
Over breakfast the next morning, Thad gave Simon a do-you-think-I’m-stupid look when Simon again cautioned about mentioning his name, still withholding the crucial information about Howard’s Spanish partners.
“I saw the angry faxes scattered about on the desk when my rehab buddies were helping me load furniture from the Silverlake house into the rental truck. Your clients were livid that you didn’t show up at MIFED.”
“Even if Charlotte hadn’t ripped me off, it was over at that point.”
Simon noted the mention of Thad’s rehab buddies. He had wondered who had helped Thad load the furniture. Simon knew it couldn’t have been Patricia, who never did anything to damage her manicures, and Scott could never be bothered, even when sober enough to consider helping someone.
