T Is for Trespass

by Sue Grafton

  I sat down in a chair that allowed me a view of a corridor with administrative offices opening off each side. At the end, where a second corridor crossed the first, a nurse’s station diverted foot traffic like water flowing around a rock in the middle of a stream. I was guessing hospital rooms were located down the two peripheral halls. Living quarters for the active, healthy residents must be somewhere else. I knew the cafeteria was close because the smell of food was strong. I closed my eyes and sorted the meal into its component parts: meat (perhaps pork), carrots, turnips, and something else—probably yesterday’s salmon. I pictured a row of heat lamps beaming down on ten-by-thirteen stainless-steel food pans: one filled to the brim with chicken parts in milk gravy, another filled with glazed sweet potatoes, a third with mashed potatoes stiff and slightly dried around the edges. By comparison, how bad could it be to eat a Quarter Pounder with Cheese? Facing this muck at the end of life, why deny myself now?

  In due course, a middle-aged volunteer in a pink cotton smock came and fetched me from the reception area. As she led me down the hallway, she didn’t say a word, but she did so in a very pleasant manner.

  Gus was in a semiprivate room, sitting upright in the bed closest to the window. The only view was of the underside of ivy vines, dense rows of white roots that looked like the legs of millipedes. His arm was in a sling and the bruises from his fall appeared from the various gaping holes in his gown. His Medicare coverage didn’t provide private-duty nursing, a phone, or a television set.

  His roommate’s bed was surrounded by a curtain on a track, pulled in a half circle that delivered him from sight. In the quiet, I could hear him breathing heavily, a cross between a rasp and a sigh that had me counting his inhalations in case he stopped and it was up to me to perform CPR.

  I tiptoed to Gus’s bedside and found myself using my public library voice. “Hello, Mr. Vronsky. I’m Kinsey Millhone, your next-door neighbor.”

  “I know who you are! I didn’t fall on my head.” Gus spoke in his normal tone, which came across as a shout. I glanced uneasily toward his roommate’s bed, wondering if the poor guy would be jarred out of his sleep.

  I placed the items I’d bought on the rolling table beside Gus’s bed, hoping to appease his ill temper. “I brought you a candy bar and some magazines. How’re you doing?”

  “What’s it look like? I hurt.”

  “I can just imagine,” I murmured.

  “Quit that whispering and talk like a normal human being. If you don’t raise your voice, I can’t hear a word.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t help. Before you ask another stupid question, I’m sitting up like this because if I lie on my back the pain is worse. Right now, the throbbing’s excruciating and it makes my whole body feel like hell. Look at this bruise from all the blood they’ve drawn. Must have been a quart and a half in four big tubes. The lab report says I’m anemic, but I didn’t have a problem until they started in.”

  I kept my expression sympathetic, but I was fresh out of consolation.

  Gus snorted with disgust. “One day in this bed and my backside is raw. I’ll be covered with sores if I’m here one more day.”

  “You ought to mention it to your doctor or one of the nurses.”

  “What doctor? What nurses? No one’s been in for the past two hours. Anyway, that doctor’s an idiot. He has no idea what he’s talking about. What did he say about my release? He better sign it soon or I’m walking out. I may be sick, but I’m not a prisoner—unless getting old is a crime, which is how it’s regarded in this country.”

  “I haven’t talked to the floor nurse, but Henry will be here in a bit and he can ask. I did call your niece in New York to let her know what was going on.”

  “Melanie? She’s useless, too busy and self-absorbed to worry about the likes of me.”

  “I didn’t actually talk to her. I left a message on her machine and I’m hoping to hear back.”

  “She’s no help. She hasn’t come to visit me for years. I told her I’m taking her out of my will. You know why I haven’t done it? Because it costs too much. Why should I pay a lawyer hundreds of dollars to make sure she doesn’t get a cent. What’s the point? I’ve got life insurance, too, but I hate dealing with my agent because he’s always trying to talk me into something new. If I take her name out as beneficiary, I have to figure out who to put in. I don’t have anyone else and I won’t leave a thing to charity. Why should I do that? I worked hard for my money. I say let other people do the same.”

  “Well, there’s that,” I said, for lack of anything better.

  Gus looked at the semicircle of curtain. “What’s the matter with him? He better quit that gasping. It’s getting on my nerves.”

  “I think he’s asleep.”

  “Well, it’s damned inconsiderate.”

  “If you want, I can hold a pillow over his face,” I said. “Just kidding,” I added when he didn’t laugh. I took a peek at my watch. I’d been with him the better part of four minutes. “Mr. Vronsky, can I get you some ice before I have to take off?”

  “No, just get on with you. To hell with it. You think I complain too much, but you don’t know the half of it. You’ve never been old.”

  “Great. Okay, well, I’ll see you later.”

  I made my escape, unwilling to spend another minute in his company. I had no doubt his testiness was a result of his misery and pain, but I wasn’t required to stand in the line of fire. I retrieved my car from the parking lot, feeling as irritable and out of sorts as he.

  As long as I was in a bad mood anyway, I decided to try serving Bob Vest again. He might get away with neglecting his cat, but he better pay attention to his ex-wife and kids. I drove to his house and parked across the street as I had before. I tried my habitual knock on the door to no great effect. Where the hell was the guy? Given that this was my third attempt, I could technically pack it in and file an Affidavit of Inability to Serve Process, but I felt I was getting close and I didn’t want to give it up.

  I returned to my car and ate the brown-bag lunch I’d packed—an olive pimento cheese sandwich on whole grain bread and a cluster of grapes, which made two servings of fruit in two days. I’d brought a book with me and alternated between reading and listening to the car radio. At intervals, I ran the engine, turned on the heater, and allowed the interior of the Mustang to fill with blessed warmth. This was getting old. If Vest didn’t show up by two, I was taking off. I could always decide later whether it was worth another try.

  At 1:35, a late-model pickup truck appeared, moving in my direction. The driver turned to look at me as he pulled into the drive and parked. The truck and the license plate matched the vehicle information I’d been given. From the description, this guy was the very Bob I’d been hired to serve. Before I could make a move, he got out, retrieved a duffel from the truck bed, and toted it up the walk. A scruffy gray cat appeared out of nowhere and trotted after him. He unlocked the front door in haste, and the cat was quick to skitter in while he had the chance. Bob glanced in my direction again before he closed the door behind him. This was not good. If he suspected he was being served, he might get cute and scurry out the back door to avoid me. If I could demonstrate a reason for my presence, I might dampen his paranoia and lure him into my trap.

  I got out, moved to the front of the car, and lifted the hood. I made a serious display of tinkering with the engine, then put my hands on my hips and shook my head. Gosh, a girl sure is baffled by a big old dirty engine like this. I waited a decent interval and then lowered the hood with a bang. I crossed the street and moved up his walk to the front porch. I knocked on his door.

  Nothing.

  I knocked again. “Hello? Sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I could use your phone. I think my battery’s dead.”

  I could have sworn he was on the other side of the door, listening to me as I tried listening to him.

  No response.

  I knocked one more time, and after a minute I went
back to my car. I sat and stared at the house. To my surprise, Vest opened the front door and peered out at me. I reached over and busied myself in the glove compartment as though searching for the service manual. Would a seventeen-year-old Mustang even have a service manual? When I looked back again, he had come down the porch steps and was heading in my direction. Oh shit.

  Forties, gray at the temples, blue eyes. His face was marked by a series of tight lines—a grimace of perpetual discontent. He didn’t seem to be armed, which I found encouraging. Once he was in range, I lowered the window and said, “Hi. How’re you?”

  “Was that you knocking on my door?”

  “Uh-hun. I was hoping to use the phone.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t get the engine to turn over.”

  “Want me to give it a try?”

  “Sure.”

  I saw his gaze shift to the summons on the front seat beside me, but he must not have registered the reference to Superior Court and all the talk of Plaintive versus the Defendant because he didn’t gasp or recoil in dismay. I folded the document and shoved it in my shoulder bag as I emerged from the car.

  He took my place in the driver’s seat, but instead of turning the key, he put his hands on the steering wheel and shook his head with admiration. “I used to own one of these babies. Jesus, the Boss 429, king of all muscle cars and I sold mine. Sold, hell. I as good as gave it away. I’m still kicking myself. I don’t even remember what I needed the money for—probably something dumb. Where’d you find it?”

  “In a used-car lot on lower Chapel. I bought it on a whim. The dealer hadn’t had it half a day. He told me there weren’t many made.”

  “Four hundred ninety-nine total in 1970,” he said. “Ford developed the 429 engine in 1968 after Petty started eating up NASCAR wins with his 426 Hemi Belvedere. Remember Bunkie Knudsen?”

  “Not really.”

  “Yeah, well right around that same time, he left GM and took over as the new boss at Ford. He’s the one talked ’em into using the 429 engine in the Mustang and Cougar lines. Sucker’s so big the suspension had to be relocated and they had to stick the battery in the trunk. Turned out to be money losers, but the Boss 302 and the 429 are still the hottest cars ever made. What’d you pay for it?”

  “Five grand.”

  I thought he’d bang his head on the steering wheel, but he shook it instead, one of those slow wags denoting copious regret. “I never should have asked.” With that, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine fired right up. “You must have flooded the engine.”

  “Silly me. I appreciate the help.”

  “No biggie,” he said. “You ever want to sell the car, you know where I am.” He got out and stood aside to let me into the car.

  I pulled the papers from my bag. “You’re not Bob Vest by any chance?”

  “I am. Have we met?”

  I held out the summons, which he took automatically when I tapped him on the arm. “Nope. Sorry to have to say this, but you’re served,” I said, as I slid under the steering wheel.

  “I’m what?” He looked down at the papers and when he saw what he had, he said, “Well, shit.”

  “And by the way. You ought to take better care of your cat.”

  When I got back to the office, I put in a second call to Gus’s niece. With the three-hour time difference, I was hoping she’d be home from work. The phone rang so long that I was startled when she finally picked up. I repeated my original report in an abbreviated form. She seemed to draw a blank, like she didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. I went through my spiel again in a more elaborate rendition, telling her who I was, what had happened to Gus, his move to the nursing home, and the need for someone, namely her, to come to his aid.

  She said, “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s not quite the response I was hoping for,” I said.

  “I’m three thousand miles away. You think it’s really that big of an emergency?”

  “Well, he’s not bleeding out or anything like that, but he does need your help. Someone has to get the situation under control. He’s in no position to take care of himself.”

  Her silence suggested she wasn’t receptive to the idea, in whole or in part. What was wrong with this chick?

  “What sort of work do you do?” I asked as a prompt.

  “I’m an executive VP in an ad agency.”

  “Do you think you could talk to your boss?”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell him—”

  “It’s a her…”

  “Great. I’m sure she’ll understand the kind of crisis we’ve got on our hands. Gus is eighty-nine years old and you’re his only living relative.”

  Her tone shifted from resistance to mere reluctance. “I do have business contacts in L.A. I don’t know how quickly I could set it up, but I suppose I could fly out at the end of the week and maybe see him Saturday or Sunday. How would that be?”

  “One day in town won’t do him any good unless you mean to leave him where he is.”

  “In the nursing home? That’s not such a bad idea.”

  “Yes, it is. He’s miserable.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Let’s put it this way. I don’t know you at all, but I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. It’s clean and the care is excellent, but your uncle wants to be in his own home.”

  “Well, that won’t work. You said he’s not able to care for himself with his shoulder like it is.”

  “That’s my point. You’ll have to hire someone to look after him.”

  “Couldn’t you do that? You’d have a better idea how to go about it. I’m out of state.”

  “Melanie, it’s your job, not mine. I barely know the man.”

  “Maybe you could pitch in for a couple of days. Until I find someone else.”

  “Me?” I held the phone away from me and stared at the mouthpiece. Surely she didn’t think she could drag me into it. I’m the least nursey person I know and I have people who’d back me up on the claim. On the rare occasions when I’ve been pressed into service, I’ve bumbled my way through, but I never liked it much. My aunt Gin took a dim view of pain and suffering, which she felt were trumped up purely to get attention. She couldn’t tolerate medical complaints and she thought all so-called serious illnesses were bogus, right up to the moment she was diagnosed with the very cancer she died of. I’m not quite as coldhearted but I’m not far behind. I had a sudden vision of hypodermic syringes and I thought I was on the verge of blacking out, when I realized Melanie was still wheedling.

  “What about the neighbor who found him and called 9-1-1?”

  “That was me.”

  “Oh. I thought there was an old guy who lived next door.”

  “You’re talking about Henry Pitts. He’s my landlord.”

  “That’s right. I remember now. He’s retired. My uncle’s mentioned him before. Wouldn’t he have time to look in on Gus?”

  “I don’t think you get it. He doesn’t need someone ‘looking in on him.’ I’m talking about professional nursing care.”

  “Why don’t you contact social services? There has to be an agency to handle things like this.”

  “You’re his niece.”

  “His great-niece. Maybe even great-great,” she said.

  “Uh-hun.”

  I let a silence fall into which she did not leap with joy, offering to fly out.

  She said, “Hello?”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m just waiting to hear what you’re going to do.”

  “Fine. I’ll be out, but I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

  She hung up resoundingly to illustrate her point.

  8

  After dinner Friday night, I went with Henry to a Christmas-tree lot on Milagro to help him choose a tree—a decision he takes very seriously. Christmas was still two weeks away, but Henry’s like a little kid when it comes to
the holidays. The lot itself was small, but he felt the trees were fresher and the selection better than at the other lots he’d tried. In the six-foot height he preferred, he had several choices: a balsam fir, a Fraser fir, a blue spruce, a Nordman, the Norway, or the noble spruce. He and the man who owned the lot got into a long discussion about the merits of each. The blue spruce, the noble, and the Norway had poor needle retention, and the Nordmans had spindly tips. He finally settled on a dark green balsam fir with a classic shape, soft needles, and the fragrance of a pine forest (or Pine-Sol, depending on your frame of reference). The tree branches were secured with heavy twine, and we hauled it to his station wagon, where we tied it across the top with an elaborate configuration of rope and bungee cords.

  We drove home along Cabana Boulevard, the darkened ocean to our left. Offshore the oil rigs twinkled like a regatta with the capacity for spills. It was close to eight by then and the restaurants and motels across from the beach were ablaze with lights. The glimpse we caught of State Street in passing showed a steady march of seasonal decorations as far as the eye could see.

  Henry parked in his driveway and we eased the tree out of its restraints. With him toting the trunk end and me struggling along at the midpoint, we wrestled the evergreen around to the street, up his short walk, and in the front door. Henry had rearranged the furniture to clear a place for the tree in one corner of the living room. Once we’d stabilized it in its stand, he tightened the T-bolts and added water to the reservoir below. He’d already pulled six boxes marked X-MAS from his attic and stacked them nearby. Five were filled with carefully wrapped ornaments, and the sixth box contained a formidable tangle of Christmas-tree lights.

  “When are you doing the lights and ornaments?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Charlotte has an open house from two until five and she’ll stop by when she’s done. You’re welcome to join us. I’m making eggnog to get us in the proper spirit.”

  “I don’t want to horn in on your date.”