Watkins - 05 - Poison Heart

by Mary Logue

  She bent the sleeves of the shirt in toward the middle and then folded the shirt in half. She wasn’t half the housekeeper her mother, Florence, had been. Her mother hadn’t made a wasted movement, and she put things back where she found them as soon as she was done with them. Her pies had been the best in the county, and she had the blue ribbons to prove it. She’d sewed a tidy stitch and set a perfect table. Margaret had tried to learn all these important country lessons, but her mind often strayed.

  Since she’d begun struggling with menopause, she found it harder than ever to stay constant. In the midst of a chore, she would find herself a million miles away.

  Margaret remembered how her mother would say to her when she was young, “Come back here, Margie, before I send the dog to fetch you.”

  Now she felt as if she had failed her mother. Not because she couldn’t keep a house as clean, but because she had let all her mother’s valuable keepsakes go to a stranger. She hadn’t been able to save her mother; now she couldn’t even save what was left of the remnants of her life.

  Margaret remembered one of the last conversations she had with her mother after moving her to Lakeside Manor. Her mother hadn’t taken to her new residence. Her level of paranoia increased. The doctor said that was part of the Alzheimer’s. She was having trouble remembering who people were. Once or twice she had called Margaret “Angie,” her aunt’s name. Margaret didn’t argue. It only made it worse.

  On this particular morning, when Margaret walked into her room, her mother had thrown a carton of milk at her.

  “Mom, what’s the matter?”

  Her mother looked right at her and said, “That woman is stealing my mind.”

  “What woman?” she had asked.

  “The one that smiles all the time. The one that’s really a deep monster.”

  “A deep monster?”

  Her mother pointed out the window. “From the lake. She’s come from the bottom of the lake.”

  At the time, Margaret had assumed her mother was fussing about one of the nurses. Now she wondered. Who had her mother meant? What had she thought was happening?

  Claire would arrive any minute. Margaret took off her apron, slicked at her hair in the mirror, and ran outside carrying her purse in her arms like a baby. She hollered at Mark, “I’m leaving,” not really caring if he heard.

  Running to the end of the driveway, she saw, with relief, the squad car coming down the road, Claire Watkins behind the wheel. Claire slowed, and Margaret hopped in.

  Claire handed her a large manila envelope. “You can have the pleasure of delivering it.”

  Maybe they’d get there before the auction started. Before one item of her parents’ lives was lost.

  Patty Jo had set up a chair for herself in a prime location, about fifteen feet in front of the auctioneer’s podium. She wanted to be able to watch every item be sold. That way she could keep track of the money. She had planned a long time for this moment, and she was going to enjoy every second of it. As each piece of furniture and each lace doily was sold, she would feel herself become freer. Nothing to hold her down. More money to do what she wanted.

  She had put her umbrella on a folding chair to save the seat for herself. It was a warm day for September, in the high seventies. While everyone else was looking around at all the stuff to be auctioned off, she had wandered around looking at the people. She found it easier to be pleasant to all her neighors since she knew she’d soon be leaving them behind.

  Lucille Clowder stopped her by the floral-print sofa. “This looks like such a nice sofa, Patty Jo. Why are you selling it?”

  “I want to start over.”

  “I suppose it has sad memories,” Lucille murmured.

  Patty Jo didn’t bother to correct her. These last few months, she had played the dutiful wife with as much dignity as she could muster. Let them think what they would; she would be gone soon.

  “I hear you already have an offer on the house?” Lucille pushed.

  “It looks that way.”

  “I wonder what that Reiner man intends to do with your land. It’ll be a shame if Walter’s house gets torn down. Beautiful old place like this. One of the nicest houses in the county.”

  “That ain’t saying much.”

  Lucille flinched at Patty Jo’s words, and Patty Jo felt the impulse to tell her more, to really shake the old woman up. She knew damn well that Lucille was just at the auction to get all the latest gossip and visit with everyone. She would probably buy some old glass vase for fifty cents, worth about five dollars new. She’d be proud of her bargain, take it home and stick it in the back of a cupboard where it would gather dust until she died. She’d spend all day wandering around looking at everything and maybe have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. It would be her entertainment for the day.

  Patty Jo felt like telling Lucille a few things she wouldn’t forget, but then shrugged it off. What was the use? Patty Jo was planning to enjoy the day, so why not let Lucille enjoy it too?

  “You looking for anything special, Lucille?”

  The older woman colored at the attention being paid her. “Oh, you know, I don’t need much anymore. I only buy something if it catches my eye.” Then the woman added, “I would like something to remember Florence by. I do miss her. She was such a good woman.”

  The highest accolade in this little county—to be a good woman. It had never been said of Patty Jo, and she never wanted it to be.

  Holding her tongue, she moved away from Lucille. The auctioneer looked ready to start. She walked over to her chair, opened up the umbrella, and lifted it over her head.

  After the auctioneer welcomed everyone and exclaimed how lucky they were to have an utterly perfect day, he lifted an old lamp and said, “Let’s start with this. I’m looking for an opening bid of five dollars. Can anyone give me five dollar? I’m looking for five dollar. I got a hand there, five, do I see ten, do I see ten. . . .” The sound of the auctioneer’s chant was a song in her ears. He rolled suggestive prices for the lamp off his tongue like the trillings of a bird.

  Another hand flew in the air and the auctioneer spieled out more numbers. Patty Jo felt a glow in her stomach. She was on her way.

  Then she noticed a commotion behind the auctioneer. A woman in a deputy’s uniform was talking to a partner in the auction business. Patty Jo recognized the woman. She was the deputy who had come to the house with Margaret. Why was she at the auction in uniform?

  Patty Jo got a real bad feeling when she saw Margaret was there too, holding some sort of letter. She had been sure that Margaret would not come to the auction. She hadn’t thought Margaret would be able to handle watching all her family heirlooms being sold out from under her. What was she doing here?

  The lamp sold for $25 to Clarence Johnson’s wife. What did she want with an old lamp? But $25 wasn’t too bad. Twice what she would have paid for it. After the bid was accepted, the auctioneer turned and started talking to the deputy. He was shaking his head and waving his arm. Then he stepped down from the podium.

  Patty Jo stood and snapped shut her umbrella. Whatever was happening, she would have to put a stop to it.

  Claire described the scene at the auction to Rich as he stood outside, grilling chicken for their dinner. “You wouldn’t have believed it. I’ve never seen anyone so mad. Patty Jo came walking up to the auctioneer and started screaming. Her face turned red. She took a lamp that had just sold and smashed it right there. Threw it on the ground and smashed it.”

  Meg sat on the porch railing and listened. Claire didn’t know how her daughter could balance on there so easily, looking like a bird on a wire.

  Meg piped in, “Did you arrest her?”

  “Arrest her?”

  “Because of the lamp. Destruction of property.”

  Claire resisted laughing at her daughter’s use of cop jargon. “No, I couldn’t. Since no money had changed hands, it was technically still her lamp. She could do with it what she wanted.”

  “Alth
ough, really technically, it wasn’t her lamp anymore. It might have been Margaret’s with this new injunction. According to you, Margaret inherits the farm, right?” Rich pointed out.

  “That’s true. But Margaret is aimed at bigger fish than suing Patty Jo for the value of a lamp. After her behavior today, I’m not even sure the woman should be allowed to stay on the farm. I don’t trust her to leave everything alone. I’m afraid she might do something drastic. I’m thinking Margaret should push to have her asked to vacate the premises. What do you think?”

  “Maybe the house will fall on her and her feet will curl up,” Meg suggested.

  “And Margaret will get the red shoes,” Rich added. Then he looked at Claire and saw how serious she was. “Can Margaret do that? It sounds awful drastic. Where would the poor woman stay?”

  “Patty Jo is no poor woman. You should have seen her this afternoon. She’s not afraid to create a scene. The woman went ballistic. I’m afraid if she’d had a gun, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “Mom, don’t say things like that. Not when I’m listening,” Meg said, jumping down off the railing. She leaned over the grill to peer at the meat, poking at it with her finger. Rich gently rapped her hand with his tongs.

  “Little pitchers have big ears. Why don’t you go in and set the table?” Claire pushed her daughter toward the house so she could talk with Rich.

  Rich leaned back against the railing. “I still say it seems a little drastic, asking Patty Jo to leave her own home.”

  “I suppose. I just have a bad feeling about that woman.”

  “Don’t get so involved, Claire. Margaret needs to figure this out.”

  “I’m already involved. The one good thing is, because of the auction, we have a complete list of all the items in the house. So Patty Jo can’t sell anything without us knowing about it. I don’t trust her at all.”

  “What ended up happening with the auction? Did Patty Jo have to pay them for their time?”

  “I’m not sure how that’s going to settle out. I can tell you the auctioneers were not happy. Nobody was happy. All the people who were there were ready to buy things, and they were pretty upset, although most of them have a lot of sympathy for what Margaret’s going through.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Margaret? She’s an odd one. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling. When my dad died, my sister and I had to divvy up all the family stuff, but we did it very easily. This is like the worst thing that could happen. Having all the family stuff yanked away. And her father isn’t even dead yet.”

  “How did you leave the place?”

  “Well, that turned out okay. The auctioneer said they weren’t going to put any of the furniture or other things back into the house. They said they’d already done enough work for no money. They took off in a huff. Patty Jo said the stuff could sit out for as long as the judgment took. She didn’t care what happened to any of it. Margaret asked me to help her start to put some of it back into the house. A couple of guys who had come for the auction helped us haul a bunch of the bigger pieces inside.”

  “Well, Patty Jo might be doing herself in. If she doesn’t take care of the furniture, it makes it easy to prove that she isn’t watching out for Walter’s best interests.”

  “Right. I like the way your mind works.”

  “Isn’t she legally bound to take care of the estate?”

  “Probably. She got into her car and drove off. Actually, that was the best thing that happened. Margaret’s husband, Mark, arrived, and we got most everything back into the house.”

  “What does Margaret want to do? Or Mark?”

  “They seem shell-shocked. I think they still can’t believe that they might lose the farm. They seemed uncomfortable even touching any of the furniture. As if someone would accuse them of something.”

  “I can understand that. Like they’ve been dispossessed in full view of the community.” Rich started to pile the chicken onto the platter she held out for him. “Good thing you got there before anything was sold.”

  The smell of the grilled chicken made Claire realize how hungry she was. “It worked out.”

  “On a different subject, I had a long talk with the doctor about my mother.” Rich put the last piece of chicken on the platter and looked up at Claire.

  “What did he say?”

  “The good news is that my mother has recovered better than they could have hoped. They have even had her up and walking a few steps. But the bad news is they want her to leave the hospital in the next couple of days. We have to talk about what we’re going to do with her. She can’t decide for herself.”

  Claire felt as though the platter of chicken had gotten very heavy. “What do you want to do?”

  He continued to watch Claire. “She can’t go home now, not in her condition. She can’t take care of herself. She’s too far away for us to be running back and forth to help her. And she’s going to need therapy for a while.”

  Claire knew what she had to say, so she forced the words out of her mouth. “Do you want her to come and stay with us?”

  He had his answer ready. “Not in a million years.”

  CHAPTER 8

  A week after Beatrice’s stroke, Rich picked her up at the hospital to take her to Lakeside Manor. As the pickup truck barreled down the freeway, Rich noticed that Beatrice was sitting crooked. The traffic on the freeway was so heavy, he couldn’t stop to arrange her better. But then, everything about her was crooked. Even her smile seemed to slide off her face. At least she had smiled at him this morning when he came to pick her up.

  “How’re you doing, Mom?” he asked now.

  She jolted a little at the sound of his voice, then turned her head slowly toward him. She still had a significant deficit on her left side, the doctors had told him; he wasn’t even sure she could see him.

  “I’m tired,” she said.

  “We’re getting close.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked in her new flat voice.

  He had told her three times already this morning and many times the previous days. But she didn’t remember much. “I think I told you. You’re going to go stay at Lakeside Manor, a very nice nursing home in Pepin, only a few miles from us. That way Claire and I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “I know you do. Mrs. Swanson is watching your apartment. You’ll be going back there soon.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Rich.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “She doesn’t know how to water my African violets.”

  “I’ll be checking on things. You can tell me how.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “I know.”

  There was silence. Her head nodded. She slept.

  After driving through Wabasha, Minnesota, they crossed over the delta of the Mississippi and the Chippewa and into Wisconsin. He saw a lone fisherman far back in the sloughs, but the season was winding down. The sumac, the harbinger of fall, was starting to turn red on the lower edges of the woodlands.

  Off to the right an egret lifted its head out of the muck and walked a few tilting steps. The walk reminded him of his mother’s attempts at locomotion. She could stand up, but she was hard put to walk more than two or three steps.

  He wondered how long she would have to stay at the nursing home. She would get some rehabiliation there, but he wasn’t really sure she’d ever be fit to go home again. He could hardly stand to think about it. His feisty mother stuck so far from all she loved, from the good life she had created after her husband had died.

  When they got to the nursing home, the director came out to greet them and sent out a nurse to help transfer Beatrice into a wheelchair.

  The big blond girl looked like she was just out of high school. She carried her weight well and transferred Beatrice out of the car and into the chair as if the old woman weighed no more than a Chihuahua.

  “That was slick,” Rich commented.

  “I’
ll teach you how to do the swivel transfer if you like.”

  Rich nodded but was nervous that if he tried such a manuever with his mother he might drop her. Rich got out her suitcase and followed behind the nurse and the wheelchair. He had had to pack the suitcase himself and had tried to put in it all the things she might need. They had given him a list of clothes to bring: seven nightgowns, seven of everything. It appeared they would take it a week at a time.

  “I’m Bonnie,” the young nurse told him. “I work every weekday. So I’ll be helping with your mother on a regular basis. She seems like she’s doing real well.”

  “I’m right here,” said Beatrice.

  Rich felt his heart lift. A little of her old spunk was a good sign.

  Bonnie laughed and said, “Okay, then, where would you like to be? Would you like to sit up for a while?”

  “No, I’m tired. Put me in bed.”

  “Certainly.” The young woman restrapped the transfer belt around Beatrice’s waist, cinched it, and hoisted Beatrice up and pivoted her until she was right next to the bed. Then she eased Rich’s mother down until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Grabbing Beatrice’s feet, she picked them up and put them on the bed. Beatrice sprawled back onto a pile of two pillows.

  “If you need anything, press your call button. I’ll be right down the hall.”

  Bonnie walked out. Rich looked around the room. Two windows faced south and the sun came in through the Levolor blinds. The floor was a beige-speckled linoleum and reminded Rich of an Easter egg candy he had eaten when he was young. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a lounge chair and a battered chest of drawers. Why hadn’t he thought to bring some personal items to soften the room?

  “Tell me what you would like and I’ll bring some of your things here to make this place more your own.”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “Mom, a few of your photographs, some books, your afghan . . .”

  She kept shaking her head through his list of possibilities.

  “I know—I’ll bring some of your violets.”