She walks up two flights of stairs to her floor. Her coworkers are steady, sturdy women. “Lunch is almost over. Mr. Todd isn’t moving from his room. Missed breakfast.” Janet, the day nurse, calls over her shoulder on her way to the dining room. “Want to try to get him out?”
“Sure. Give me a minute.”
She checks in at the desk, sees that there’s a new admission today. Passing abandoned walkers, folded wheelchairs, a few discarded stuffed animals that await new owners, she notices the latest coat of paint is already flaking off the walls. How’s that possible?
“Mr. Todd, why are you in here instead of out there eating?” He’s perched on the side of the bed, his bare feet on the floor. His dark eyes peer at her from beneath thick brows and a full head of long white hair he refuses to cut.
“Where were you for breakfast?” he accuses.
“Had a headache, slept in. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m perfectly miserable but not unhealthy.”
“Health is everything, isn’t it?” A remark that feels close to home.
“You’re young.” He says it dismissively.
“So were you, once.”
“Well, that’s gone.”
“What is it you’d like to be? Younger? Healthier? Elsewhere?”
“Dead.”
“Oh, Mr. Todd, you don’t mean that.”
“But I do.”
“Think of all you would miss!” Except he has no one special. “If you join the others and eat something it’ll raise your spirits. Nutrition and socializing can do that.” She sounds like some do-good asshole mouthing new-age claptrap she’d hate to have anyone say to her.
“Where did you hear that crap?”
She laughs. “I can’t remember. Come on, Mr. T. Come with me. I need coffee, keep me company.”
“That’s a better line.”
Once he was clearly a hearty man who could put away a six-pack, but now the paper-thin skin of his hands and face reveal the skeleton beneath. A corrections officer for thirty years, he must’ve been rough and tough, but he rarely talks about it. She moves his walker to the bed. He pushes it away. “I can walk without it. It’s only here because if I fall I can sue you.”
“Can I link your arm?”
“I need to put on shoes.”
She waits. Of course he can’t find his shoes. Of course they’re way under the bed. Of course she has to bite the dust to get them. Damn. Next staff meeting, dust and Clorox are on her agenda. She stands up, brushes herself off, and hands him the shoes, the backs of which are collapsed. He slips them on like scuffs. His eyes challenge her to make him wear them as shoes. She refuses and walks out, but slowly, and he does follow her to the dining room.
The cafeterias on each of the institution’s six floors are alike. Kitchens in the center, five tables, each with eight seats, pale green walls, small, bare windows, a vase with plastic flowers on the serving counter, and food odors that mingle with the musty scents of age. The sixth floor houses the Alzheimer’s clientele. Her second-floor charges are more reachable, even when some choose not to be. It’s as if they’ve pulled down a curtain to protect the past from the present. She used to pry; she doesn’t anymore.
With Mr. Todd a few steps behind her, she finds an empty table. Most of the other diners have already wandered off to the TV room, crafts, or their bedrooms. Some will walk the hallways or even get on the elevator, head for the ground floor, and leave. Who can blame them?
“Stay here, I’ll get some lunch for you. And coffee for me.” He eyes her suspiciously as if, now that she’s got him in here, she’ll disappear.
“You don’t know what I want?”
“Tell me.”
“Cold cereal with real milk.”
“Easy.”
They’re shutting down the food service, but she manages to snag the cereal, milk, and coffee, which she brings over on a tray.
“The coffee tastes awful,” she says.
“You’re honest. The rest of them act like this is paradise.”
“Oh, that it is not. Indeed it’s not. Tell me, do you ever miss the work you did?”
“No. I didn’t like it there either. Why were you late this morning?”
“I told you I had …”
“That wouldn’t keep you away.”
She studies his large face, eyes steady on her, and to her surprise hears herself telling him about her hours at the ER, and how they wanted her to have an MRI, and how she refused it. That she was late today because she needed to catch up on lost sleep.
“Well, you’re a smart cookie. Never trust them is what I say. It’s their job to make you jump through hoops. Tests, they especially love tests. Tried to put me on the operating table for a new something in my heart, but I told them I’d rather die on my own, thank you very much. Then again, you’re young. You can still be helped. Maybe. Are you feeling better now?” His tone suddenly warmer, his eyes still steady on her.
She strokes the deeply veined hand on the table. “Nearly all better, thanks. Can you open the cereal box?”
She watches him fumble a bit with it, then does it for him. Janet gestures to her from the doorway. “I have to welcome a new admission,” she tells him.
“Another lucky person.”
The elevator doors open to release a tall, willowy woman in her late eighties, wearing a long, tailored black skirt and white blouse, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a bun. Her bright blue eyes gaze out of deep sockets.
“Welcome, Miss Dyan. Let me show you to your room,” she begins, as she does with each new admission.
The woman doesn’t move, an angry expression etched on her face.
“First days are difficult.”
“I can’t stay here,” she declares fiercely, clearly a woman used to being obeyed. But stay she will; she has no choice. On the cusp of losing her memory, forgetting to take her meds or shut off the oven, living on her own has become too dangerous.
“We’ll do what we can to make you comfortable,” she recites, deciding the usual orientation is out for today.
“You’re the new one. Lucky you.” Mr. Todd pauses in passing.
“Please, Mr. Todd, be more welcoming.”
“There’s no way to disguise what’s here,” he says as he continues to walk.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asks the woman.
“I’ll wait here on the bench for you to bring it to me.”
“Why not,” she murmurs, heading back to the cafeteria, where her nearly untouched cup of coffee remains on the table.
9.
Lena waits for her boss to arrive. She’s been summoned to his office but doesn’t know why, which is slightly unnerving. It can’t be her work. She’s meticulous. Handling money is a serious business. Making up the hotel payroll demands scrupulous attention. People’s salaries matter. She checks and rechecks, true of all the duties she carries out.
His office is twice the size of hers. One huge window overlooks the UN building, its glassy façade reflecting the clouds as if it owned the sky. On his desk, a gold-framed photo of his wife, two boys, and a German shepherd, behind them a house shaded by tall trees. She guesses Connecticut. She doesn’t doubt the rumor that he’s messing around with one of the hotel maids. Maybe his wife’s relieved. Maybe she’s tired of having sex with him. Maybe everything between them is as stale as his excuses, but who else will support her in the style she’s accustomed to?
He struts in, briefcase in hand. A slender man in his fifties, wisps of hair covering a balding pate, a drinker’s red cheeks, and eyes with no spark behind rimless glasses. “Hello, Lena.” He slides behind the large desk, half of him disappearing. “Sorry to be late. I had to attend to my other hotel first. It took longer than expected.” He removes a folder from his briefcase and places it in front of him. “Look, this is all very difficult, but I don’t want to waste any more of your time. We have to let you go. Not just you, of course. We’re closing the other hotel and s
hutting down the two top floors here. We’re going to need less staff.” He looks past her.
“I’m stunned” is what comes out of her mouth.
“The board made the decision over the weekend.”
“Why me?” She dares him to tell her. A white heat of anger and fear already consuming her.
“We don’t need two bookkeepers now. And … well … you’re the assistant.”
For a moment they stare at each other. “Two weeks’ severance, a letter of reference, and you’ll be eligible for six months’ unemployment. That’s it, Lena. I’m sorry.”
He looks down at the folder. She’s dismissed but still glued to the seat because once she leaves, it’ll be true. So she sits. A wall clock ticks. Somewhere in the distance the muted sounds of traffic, a siren. Footsteps pass the closed door.
“As soon as you can get your things together …. We’ll pay you for today, of course.” But his eyes remain locked on the folder.
She wants him to look up at her, to acknowledge her plight, a smile, a short wave of the hand, even a call to security, but he flicks the folder open. He’s done with her.
When the elevator reaches the lobby, she hurries to her office, glad the bookkeeper isn’t there. Her eyes scan the file cabinets, wall schedules, and her desktop. Nothing here she wants. She empties the desk drawers of a pair of shoes, two sweaters, some hair clips. She fills one small plastic shopping bag. Ten years’ worth of nothing.
The taxi driver intends to make every light going north on Amsterdam Avenue, swerving in and out of lanes to avoid vehicles, people, and heaven knows what else. Buildings pass in a blur, erasing the bleakness of the streets. The speed feels good, right, dangerous, daring, the ride mimicking the turmoil inside her. She closes her eyes against the rush of cold air hitting her face through the driver’s half-open window and takes short, deep breaths in anticipation of the sudden crash that’s bound to come.
When the taxi slows to a stop she’s shocked, disappointed, reluctant to get out. The driver turns his expectant face to her and points at the meter. She pays and gives him a tip, both of which have become unaffordable.
The cold bricks of the tall symmetrical buildings greet her with indifference. She has no desire to walk through the projects. Instead she heads down a street of small shops, cars parked on either side; supply trucks clot the area, double-parked everywhere. Lining the curb, piles of see-through garbage bags. People go by without a glance in her direction. Pieces of conversation float past: “I feel stronger since I’ve been taking it.” “The abdominal pain was ferocious.” “She’s full-time on oxygen now.” Around here, it’s all about personal tales of survival. No talk of politics or Wall Street or the economics of anything but getting by. What’s she even doing in the old neighborhood? Why didn’t she go straight home?
The last time she walked these streets, three years ago, was to attend Matt’s funeral. His death still unacceptable, another among too many soldiers sent home in body bags. Once upon a time, she and Zack, Dory and Stu, had all hung out with Matt at his parents’ restaurant, where his mother, Tina, served not just pizza but a semblance of normalcy on difficult days. Tina was once her go-to person in times of confusion, the one who sat with her at the restaurant after visits to her hospitalized mother; it was Tina who often fed her dinner as well. Matt would appear, carrying his drawing pad, to lighten the moment, his voice teasing, joyous, a boy refusing to be brought down by circumstance.
It’s still there, just where it’s always been, the faded, weather-beaten, green-striped awning stenciled “Tina and Jerome’s Pizzeria.” It’s a small place, four booths and a short counter. A silver oven takes up the rear wall. The smells of basil, garlic, and hot dough are heavy and familiar.
A young man wearing a white apron liberally sprinkled with tomato sauce is behind the counter.
“Hi,” she says a bit hesitant. “Where’s Tina?”
“Tina,” he calls into the back. “Someone to see you.”
She orders a slice of pizza and a cup of coffee, both of which he promptly places on the counter.
Tina stops at the back doorway, her small face prepared for trouble. She doesn’t smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood …”
“Come sit down.”
Carrying the pizza and coffee, she follows Tina’s large body, clad in loose black slacks and a rose-colored blouse, to one of the aging booths.
“Is Zack okay? And the boy? Your girl? No more children, right?”
“Everyone’s fine, and no more children.”
“And Dory? With that handsome man?”
“She’s great and he’s still handsome.”
With some difficulty, Tina slides into the booth opposite her. “Yes, what happened?” The voice calm, always calm, no matter what Tina’s thinking.
“I was fired from my job a few hours ago.” So that’s why she’s here. To rehearse, to try out the words she’ll have to repeat to family, friends.
Tina’s dark, intelligent eyes take her in. “So big deal.”
“Well, it’s not exactly nothing.”
“You’ll find a job. Who cares? Don’t suffer.”
That’s another reason she’s come here. Only life and death move Tina; the rest, as she often says, is bunk.
“They’re closing floors in my hotel and letting staff go.” Somehow, she desperately needs to explain.
Tina sighs. “Soon they’ll be short-handed and hire. Never pin your hopes on bosses.”
“How’s Jerome?”
Tina takes a moment to consider her response, something she always did when the news wasn’t good.
“He passed last year, right here in the restaurant. We were together forty-eight years. I didn’t expect to miss him this much.”
“Oh, god, Tina, I didn’t know. Someone should’ve called … I’m so sorry … I …”
“People get old and die, but only people. Your coffee mug is as old as I am, and if someone doesn’t drop it, it will last like the river and the trees.”
“You’re so sure of what you say. It’s good.”
“You will be, too, when you reach my age. But it’s not worth it, getting older to be wiser.”
Tina’s aging, of course she is. The wrinkles, the jowls, the gray hair, but old like the people Dory cares for? No, it’s not how she sees her. “No one would guess your age.”
Tina studies her somewhat swollen hands resting palms down on the table. “That’s not what’s important.”
Dear god, please don’t let her announce some incurable illness. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong, no, I wouldn’t say so, just inevitable.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The frailty ahead.”
“You’re a strong woman.”
“Strong has nothing to do with it. Yesterday I lost the keys to the front door of my apartment. Gone. Disappeared. I probably dropped them in a grocery bag I was carrying, then threw the bag down the incinerator. My mind used to focus easily on details like that. Now, from one minute to the next I struggle to keep up with that younger self. So listen to me. Take a week off. No one will starve. Sleep late. Go to a good movie. Walk around a park. See the sights. Play with your children. They’re healthy, alive.”
Lena’s eyes flit to the framed oil painting that takes up half of the adjacent wall. Tina moved it here from her apartment after Matt died. Crazy zigzag lines, weird multicolored splashes. What was Matt seeing? She remembers him in a paint-smeared tank top, his hair long, curly, wild, in front of an easel in the middle of Tina’s living room. Around him, paint tubes, rags, brushes, turpentine, all kinds of smells. For months, no one else could use the area. Zack said Matt was being selfish. She thought him audacious, taking the space he needed. She was shocked when Matt joined the marines.
She has to ask, has to know how long finality lasts. “Do you think about Matt a lot?”
“On days when I’m feeling him in my belly, I sit dow
n and write him a letter, then remind myself I don’t have his address and drop it in the drawer with the others.”
“Tina, I didn’t mean to …”
“Talking about Matt’s good. I don’t want closure. It’s not about time passing, either. It’s about finding ways to live with it. You’ll get another job,” Tina abruptly changes the subject. “More coffee?”
She shakes her head “Maybe I’ll look for something different,” she says more to herself than Tina.
“Like what?”
“A guide on one of those tour buses that ride around the city? I know New York. I could do that.” The restlessness inside her is physical.
“It’s your world. I no longer understand half of what goes on. Customers want me to buy a smart phone so they can text me an order that I’ll never be able to access. I’d rather hear it over the phone.”
“Tina, you’re quick, you’d be able to do that.”
“But I don’t want to. Some people window-shop endlessly. Not me. I only shop to buy what I need. I don’t need a smart phone. Lena, don’t wait years to come see me again. Hear me?”
“I promise.” But her words are lost, as Tina gets up to help several people who have just entered the restaurant.
Despite the cold, she walks into a small park nearby, where Rosie played when she was little. The wind whips a few dried leaves off the branches. The place seems eerily quiet.
Inside the playground, she takes out her phone.
“Why are you calling me at work?” Dory asks.
“I was fired.”
She hears an intake of breath. “That sucks.”
“It was a shock. I had no idea.”
“Bastards.”
“I just left Tina’s.”
“Tina’s? My god, whatever for?”
“Can you take a break?”
“No. Meet me here in the lobby at five. We’ll go drinking.”
“Sounds right.” She has three hours to kill.
She sits on a swing, pushes high off the ground, as the winter sun begins its slow descent. Without Tina, there’d be no reason ever to visit these streets again.
Every Body has a Story Page 4