by Joan Barfoot
Systems leave her freer to keep tabs on the inevitable glitches as they arise: the roof leak, for instance; a staff member requiring maternity leave; a resident reacting badly to new meds, or getting ill in a way the Idyll Inn isn’t set up to handle. Some of the old are meek enough—or frightened, or ingratiating, or genuinely kindly—but by and large they have high expectations of what their rents buy them. Like instant attention. Some, never mind that they’re now living with other people with quite different preferences, are under the impression they can behave any old way. Jostling at mealtimes a little too vigorously, say, to be first in or out of the dining room. Sometimes a quiet word works, sometimes makes no difference at all. One thing’s for sure—if she ever imagined that the old would focus their dwindling time on approaching their ends with appropriate grace, she’s been disabused of that notion. It’s more as if they’re trying to eke every last greedy morsel of service or food or goodwill out of each day remaining to them.
The essential trick is to keep smiling; keep them busy, as well, preoccupied with events, which is what Linda Swain’s for: organizing entertainments, although Annabel Walker has to approve most of her plans. There are expenses involved, and in the case of excursions, insurance issues—a sea, all in all, of paperwork. Annabel also has to produce detailed accountings of staffing, nutrition, expenses and incomes monthly, semi-annually and annually for the management company, where she assumes somebody’s paying attention. Certainly she expects to account to the penny for this weekend’s Thanksgiving blowout, from the cost of table centrepieces to the price of turnips and turkey. At least double the regular number of meals will be served, since residents’ families are invited to dinner, but it all falls into the category of allowable expense, relatively cheap advertising of Idyll Inn splendours.
This isn’t the kind of minor activity that Linda Swain can handle and Annabel rubber-stamp. Everybody, top to bottom, has extra work to do: planning and preparing a traditional Thanksgiving menu along with the usual attention to individual diets—low salt, low fat, no sugar—and decorating the place with the grasses and gourds of old-fashioned harvest-time, and making centrepieces out of tiny corncobs and little baskets and strands of orange-and-yellow-striped ribbons, a chore Linda farmed out to one of her crafts groups with mixed, not exactly deft results. For relatives, this will be the first big, significant holiday since this place opened, which means not only reunion but inspection. How are people holding up, how may they be failing? Annabel Walker has advised staff that they will need to be especially helpful. “There’s a lot of anticipation and stress when families turn up, and I want everyone to go the extra mile. We want our visitors to know their loved ones are well looked after and happy, and that no one goes around with things like draggy hems or unbrushed hair.”
Beyond that, it’s up to the residents to choose their own public faces, preferably of competence and contentment. And she has to hope no one brings loud family grudges to the table; or new grudges against the Idyll Inn, for that matter. “Just keep smiling,” she has counselled her staff. “It makes a difference to how people behave.”
Easier said than done. There are also those without visitors to take into account: residents whose relatives are too far-flung to gather, or at least to gather here; those whose families don’t make a big deal of the holiday; those without families at all. George is among them—“I can’t, Dad, I’ve already made the trip twice,” Colette tells him—and so is Ruth, who says, “We’ll eat together then, shall we, George?” Which is kind of her. And she can’t do him any harm with so many people around. Anyway, it’s not as if she loves him, and according to her she only puts pillows over the faces of people she loves.
Two of Greta’s three daughters plus a granddaughter are coming. Even Sylvia’s Nancy is to arrive in town the night before, and will stick around till after the dinner. Sylvia has been surprised by how much this pleases her, even knowing that, come Nancy’s actual arrival, abrasions will arise as they always do. But Sylvia’s determined to try; just as she’s recently been trying to keep both the handy but evidently confusing foreign word, and the negatively clever remark, from leaping automatically to her tongue. She estimates that she succeeds maybe a quarter of the time, and is rewarded by an occasional large-spiritedness that feels vaguely familiar, as if it’s something she once had, but mislaid, and then forgot.
Nancy too must be experiencing an outbreak of benevolence. When she shows up in the lounge, she even places warmish lips on warmish cheek before pulling up a chair to join Sylvia, Greta, Ruth and George. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she says. “You look comfortable.”
So they do, in their slippers, nightgowns and robes. The women, although not often George, have taken to changing early occasionally, especially if it’s more convenient for staff, as it is on this busy weekend. With darkness falling earlier by the day, being wrapped in nightclothes feels cosy. “We old folks feel the chill,” Sylvia says, meaning we old folks sardonically; Nancy’s quick grin says she gets it. Does it say anything else? Briefly Sylvia puts a hand on Nancy’s, then draws back in case she doesn’t care to be touched.
“Nancy, how nice!” Ah, here’s Annabel Walker, greeting Nancy like an old friend. “I’m so glad you’re joining us. We’re doing our best to make this a really festive weekend for everyone.”
“So I see.” Nancy nods toward the sheaves of fake wheat—real wheat would be messy—draped on the walls.
“I wonder if your mother and her friends would like to invite you to the dining room for our pre-Thanksgiving concert? We’ve got the Tonaires.” As if they’re special and not just regulars, a local male quartet in blue-and-white-striped jackets who sing a cappella.
“Oh, I think we can hear them plainly enough from right here,” Sylvia says. “Too plainly, really. Nancy’s always had such a good ear, and I’m sure you’ve noticed that at least one of those men keeps sliding off key. I imagine that’s even more painful up close. And there’s a repertoire issue—do you suppose they realize that ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ thoroughly predates the most ancient among us?”
“Mother!” says Nancy; but does her tone not speak of private delight?
Annabel Walker sighs. “All right, fair enough, but don’t you agree, Nancy, that it would be much nicer if people didn’t wear their nightclothes when they’re out in public areas like this?”
Nancy’s eyebrows shoot up, just like her mother’s. “Why would it be nicer? I’d have thought you’d be happy that people feel at home. I often get into my nightclothes the moment I get home from work if I’m not going out again, don’t you ever do that?”
“Perhaps, but I think it’s especially important here not to let standards slide, particularly with visitors coming and going.” Poor Annabel, smiling, miscalculating her audience one more time.
“Seems to me if that’s a problem, it’s one for the strangers and visitors, not the people who live here. Who pay very well to live here, I notice. Personally, I wouldn’t care to spend thousands a month to be told what to wear.”
“Good for you,” Ruth says to Nancy after Annabel has skittered away. “It’s easy to see who you take after.” Which creates a small, prickly pause during which Sylvia does not say, And thank God for that. Nor does she say, and never will, If you had a proper chat with Annabel Walker, Nancy, you’d be surprised by how much you have in common—mostly those feeble paternal genes you have no idea you share. The greatest kindnesses and generosities may, in a surprising number of circumstances, lie in absolute, bitten-lip, no-matter-what silence. In terms of motherhood that may be a pitiful gift, but it’s the one Sylvia can give over and over.
Perhaps she deserves some kind of maternal achievement award. She’d have to get in line behind Greta, of course. She should ask Greta if her gifts to her miraculously, legendarily trouble-free daughters include keeping secrets from them. Well, besides George. Otherwise, probably not. “Join us in a glass, Nancy?” she says instead, rather bravely, considering that when it
comes to her mother, Nancy can demonstrate a strikingly pro-temperance attitude.
Not this time. “Sure, I could use one after that drive.”
“Are you feeling all right?” and really, Sylvia doesn’t mean that unkindly.
“Why, don’t I look okay?” Nancy leans back in her chair. “I’m just tired. I was thinking driving into town about those Thanksgiving parties you and Dad used to throw, remember? Dad making a ton of Bloody Marys because he said a vegetable mix made it a harvest drink, and everybody getting pissed up before the turkey was anywhere near the table?”
“They were fun, weren’t they?” Sylvia is rather struck in the heart. “We had,” she tells the others, “friends in, along with almost everyone from the block. People brought casseroles and desserts, and I did the turkey and so forth, and as Nancy says, Jackson took care of the drinks. He’d mix the Marys in a big old washtub, so they always tasted of metal. We held that party for, oh, thirty years or so.” Before and after Peter, children, various dramas, oh well.
“I guess—” as if Nancy’s on a similar train of thought—“Annabel must think she can appeal to my better nature because we knew each other when we were kids, but even then we didn’t have much in common. Well, except for our parents hanging out, I suppose.” Was that a crack? Couldn’t really be anything else, could it? Apparently she too can scarcely help herself. “Are those singers we’re hearing her choice? Because you’re right, they’re pretty bad.” A four-part distant droning of “Red River Valley” at the moment—Come and sit by my side if you love me…Perhaps suitable for Thanksgiving. Perhaps cruel. “Will all your families be coming?”
“Two of Greta’s daughters, isn’t that right, Greta? George’s daughter lives too far away and Ruth doesn’t have children.” Sylvia says this as flatly as possible so that, she hopes, no one is wounded by absence.
“Where do your people stay when they come to town?” Nancy asks Greta.
“They share a hotel room, but I am not sure which one.”
“There’s not much choice, is there? Clean and dull, or not so clean and far too interesting.” Another crack? “Actually, I should go check in before my room’s given away and I have to hunt down one of the lively places. Thanks for the drink, Mother, see you tomorrow, okay?”
“You’re welcome, and yes, I’ll look forward to it.” Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, though, sustaining these modest courtesies while dodging the barbs. Watching Nancy walk away, Sylvia wonders if her daughter’s too thin inside her loose mossy-green trousers and pale yellow turtleneck. Hard to tell, with someone who’s always been narrow. “I think I’ll turn in too.” An hour or so of bad TV should put her nicely to sleep.
“Me also,” says Greta. “I will want to be rested to enjoy tomorrow.”
“Room,” George tells her. Now why is he crying?
“All right, I can push you.”
Ruth goes along too. How tiring people seem to find their own children—whenever offspring whirl through the place, disrupting conversations and rhythms, creating stirrings of discontent, grief, love, they leave behind when they go a foggy residue, a grey forlornness. Now here’s George, even without his Colette, tears glittering like mercury beads and wrapped in rough brownish grey like a monk. Greta appears outlined in bright purple but with shadows of someone leaner and tougher, like an old, stringy turkey, camouflaged behind her plush frame, while Sylvia, surprisingly, bears a sad sort of soft blue like a shawl over her shoulders. When Ruth mentioned her mildly hallucinatory visions to her doctor, he asked if she found them distressing. Good question. “I guess I’d say they’re disorienting, but basically beautiful. I wouldn’t be concerned if I didn’t know everything’s not really surrounded by rainbows. As long as they don’t mean I’m having a stroke or going insane, they’re mainly just interesting and pretty.”
The one person around whom she never sees extraneous colours is her own self, in the mirror.
By mid-morning the next day, the scents of spiced stuffing and turkeys are beginning to drift out of the kitchen, along with an exuberant clatter of pans. Early on, too, residents begin the anxious wait in their suites, the lounge, the library, right at the front doors, already in their best dresses and suits, watching the time, watching the time—at the Idyll Inn, weeks and months may flicker by lightly, but expectant minutes and hours are an eternity.
George wonders if he looked as pitifully eager, waiting all slicked down at the door for Colette. Don’t these people have any pride, don’t they have lives of their own? Oh. That rings a bell.
When two of Greta’s daughters and the granddaughter roll through the front doors, Sylvia says, “The Valkyries have arrived,” as if they come girded for opera. Then Nancy appears, and she and Sylvia vanish into Sylvia’s suite. As other people bring their embraces and words of affection, it gets a lot like moving-in week, with all the gabbling and hustle, except that nobody’s carting furniture around or hammering pictures on walls. Even the tensions are back, in the cries of “You look terrific,” and “How are you enjoying yourself?” and “Isn’t this lovely, what a great place.” It sounds as if nobody wants to feel bad about either making or hearing a load of complaints. Time is too precious. For Ruth and George, not directly involved, it’s like TV, watching who comes to see whom; which of their fellows belongs with which clutch of people. As with residents, women guests outnumber men. There are a few small children but only a couple of teenagers, who don’t look happy, but then, as Ruth points out, they probably wouldn’t be happy to be anywhere with their families, much less here.
Such long legs young people have, and such large, bright teeth. “Like the wolf in ‘Little Red Riding Hood,’” Ruth whispers to George, and not much later she says, “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to escape to my room until dinner. This is such a lot of commotion, it’s a little bit wearing. Can I take you to your door, too? I’m afraid on my own I’d get crushed underfoot,” and she’s not entirely joking.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Headache,” he adds.
“You have one?”
“A little.”
“No wonder. Take an Aspirin and lie down for a while. Whichever of us gets to the dining room first can save the other a seat, all right? We’ve got a couple of hours.”
In his room he buzzes for an aide to help him from wheelchair to bathroom to bed. “Nap,” he tells her.
“Good idea. I’ll get you up and ready in lots of time for the turkey.”
Drifting off, he wonders how Colette is spending the day. At a big table with many friends, Bill at the head? He sees Bill carving, the job of the man of the house. What does Colette’s house look like? Or his own house? Why do so many daughters look like their mothers instead of their fathers? Where are the men, all the men? They think they’re so strong with their carving knives at the heads of the tables, but it’s the women who live. There are Greta’s daughters, not Valkyries, whatever those are, but Amazons, as he once thought of Greta herself, with her strong, gripping limbs. His own personal, grave secret; a happy, easy, then painful, tender, private adventure, totally separate, all flung blankets and warmth. Shiny. Peculiar what happens. How everything changes. A busybody spots a car where it shouldn’t be. The graceful wobble and stumble, a rememberer begins to forget, George falls to his kitchen floor and rises up, or fails to rise up, a new man. What’s true in the first place, if everything can go spinning in a moment in totally unforeseen ways? What’s a man really, or a woman, if upendings are so whimsically, randomly possible?
Who’s in charge of surprise? Looking down and noticing the back of a woman’s neck in a new and irresistible way—there are delicious surprises, not only kitchen-floor ones.
Whoever’s in charge, it’s hard to forgive. Greta said that; something like that.
“George, Mr. Hammond, wake up, can you smell dinner? The turkeys are out of the ovens, it’s suppertime very soon, are you ready to wake up now?” It’s Adele something, one of the day-shift aides, saying something about
cranberry sauce while he’s still betwixt and between where he is and where he was, deeply sleeping, moments ago.
On the toilet, his eyelids droop and he nods.
Next he knows, he’s been shifted into his wheelchair and Adele something is pushing him into the corridor outside his room, and he makes out at the far end, as on the first day, Greta, large and brisk, rounding the corner, and by the time they are close, and then side by side, he is in the back room of his store.
He is piling shoeboxes on a low shelf, with Greta hovering above and—his right hand reaches out, slides upwards, cups itself on her big muscled behind, affectionately, inquiringly, twiddles its fingers and—she is making a sharp whuffing noise and jerking away, loudly saying, “Jesus Christ.” Not like Greta at all.
Greta, a large, lumpy old woman, appears in her doorway.
Could he really have done such a thing?
How he adored Greta’s bottom; and her willingness.
He revelled—there’s a lost word returned.
The terrible moment was so warm, so soft, so pleasant and true.
He is a disgusting old man. That’s what Adele will tell Annabel Walker, even if Greta’s daughter does not, and he’ll be thrown out. Annabel Walker will also get in touch with Colette—please, don’t let Colette hear what he’s done.
Who is he asking for help?
Has he ever before been so humiliated, so pleadingly sorry? He doesn’t think he has, but he’s an old man of assorted experience; only right now he can’t remember any single moment so awful.