by Chris Fabry
“Aren’t you going to eat anything, Elsie?” one of the workers said as she passed.
Elsie waved the Bible at her. “Not hungry today.”
She waited until Miriam walked inside, followed by Treha in wrinkled scrubs. Miriam kept moving toward the office. Treha, however, came to Elsie, calm and subdued.
“Have you heard anything of Dr. Crenshaw?” Elsie said.
“I saw him in the hospital. He didn’t respond.”
Elsie looked at her hands, wrinkled and worn, knuckles swollen and fingers pointing in directions they weren’t designed to go. She felt the ravages of age in every inch of her body. “What do the doctors say? Was it a stroke?”
“I heard something about tests. He’s in intensive care.”
Tears came to Elsie’s eyes and she thought they were as much for Treha as Dr. Crenshaw. The girl would be just as affected by his death but would never show it. And then the tears flowed, like a stream leaking through her mind. The waters had backed up with debris and now they came with force over her, an emotional tide.
“He was so taken with you,” Elsie choked.
Treha watched, coaxing her, willing the overflow.
“I didn’t expect it. I think that’s what’s killing me. With others, you know it’s coming. You treasure every moment. Then people get sick and go downhill and don’t make it back from a fall or a long illness. A life deteriorates and comes to a slow end. But it was so fast with Jim. I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
Elsie shook with emotion, and Treha leaned forward and clasped her hands, not too tightly, just enough. A warmth spread through the old woman.
“There are so many changes,” she continued. “And old fogies like me don’t do very well with change.”
“You don’t know what will happen. And you’re not an old fogy. Whatever that means.”
“You know what it means. You probably know the etymology of it.”
Treha stared. She did, Elsie could tell.
“It describes everybody in here,” Elsie said. “Everybody whose life is not their own because they have to depend on others. I can’t make my own breakfast. I can’t have hot coffee because I might burn myself. My food is tepid. The oatmeal is cold. I take medicine that’s given to me to make me go to the bathroom and medicine to stop me from going to the bathroom. I take medicine to regulate my blood pressure and other pills to regulate other medicine.”
“But you are a fighter. You are a survivor.”
“Longevity is not a fruit of the Spirit. I don’t want to survive; I want to live. I want to stop feeling like a baby someone has to care for.” She waved a hand. “How can I make someone so young understand?”
Treha’s eyes shifted and she stepped back.
Elsie looked away. “Listen to me, all wrapped up in myself. That’s where the grief leads you, back to yourself and your problems. There’s a whole lot more suffering out in the world than the temperature of my coffee and oatmeal, isn’t there?”
“I don’t blame you. Tepid coffee is the worst. Maybe you should put ice in it.”
“Would that it would be hot or cold,” Elsie said, chuckling. A bright girl in a dim package. Jim had tried to loosen her with his games and riddles. He had tried to pull her out, to bring her into the open like she was able to do with others. Treha’s gift was to help flowers bloom, to free chained minds. But the girl herself remained closed tight like a desert rose in the winter.
“He always believed you were special,” Elsie said. “When he talked about you, his eyes lit up like Christmas.”
“Dr. Crenshaw?”
She nodded. “He knew a lot about people. How to treat each patient with dignity. You knew he was an ob-gyn?”
“He never talked about his career. At least not with me.”
“He worked with pregnant women. How many babies that man delivered, God only knows. He was a real success. You wouldn’t know that from seeing him here. I’m not saying anything negative about this place—but I think his family wanted rid of him.”
“I miss his word games.”
Elsie smiled. “He loved to find new ways to challenge you. It challenged him as well. He said you were so fast that it was incredible to watch, the way your mind worked. He said he could see your neural pathway opening up. There was something about you he had never seen. He thought your linguistic power would one day help you conquer the world.”
Treha looked away as Elsie continued.
“He said you could do anything you wanted. You could be more than what you are here. Perhaps a writer. Did you know he thought that about you, Treha?”
“I’m going to miss Mrs. Howard.”
“Yes, today’s her last day, isn’t it?” Elsie said. “But you’re not listening to me. Jim—Dr. Crenshaw—he told me that you have great potential. You have the ability to become—”
“He sent a letter before he became ill.”
“A letter? To you?”
Treha shook her head. “To a Mr. Davidson. He said things about me, I think.”
Elsie leaned forward. “In the letter? What are you talking about, child?”
Before she could answer, there were footsteps on the freshly waxed floor. A squeak-squeak of pressed rubber. Elsie looked up, thinking it might be Miriam, but saw Ms. Millstone staring at Treha as if Elsie didn’t exist.
“I need to see you right away,” the woman said. No emotion, no feeling.
Treha kept her eyes on Elsie as if looking for some kind of permission.
“Come back when you’re finished,” Elsie said. “I want to hear more about that letter.”
“Ms. Langsam, I said I need to see you,” Ms. Millstone said firmly.
The girl nodded. Elsie smiled at her and reached for her hand, but she was gone.
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 11
Fade in from black to shot of Gaylen Reynolds, aka Hemingway, standing at his writing desk.
Close-up of ceramic cats on the desk, the windowsill, the bed behind him.
Tight shot of his hands as he gestures over the manual typewriter.
People don’t understand. How hard this is. They think anyone can write. Anyone with an idea in their head and a computer. Or a pen. Or that you put your fingers over the typewriter and the music starts and you follow it. That’s the belief, but it’s not like that at all. Writing is work. It’s like digging a trench on a hot day with the sun beating down on you and everything inside screaming to get to the shade and get to a drink of water.
Cut to the books lining the shelves, all copies of Hemingway novels.
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days without taking a fish. Do you remember that one? Do you know what it took to get that from the well? To drag that up from the waters?
It’s harder than warfare. In war, a man dies like a dog. With writing, your critics tear you to pieces and treat you less than a dog. It’s insane that anyone would put themselves through such a thing. But if it’s in there, if you truly have something to say, if you truly have a story to tell, you have to keep going, you see? You have to show up each day and do the work you were called to and then stop while there’s still fuel in the tank. I’ve always said that. Never empty the well—you have to stop when there is still water left to pull.
They won’t let you have the drink here, you know? They said I could keep my cats but not the Scotch, and to be honest with you, I’d rather have the Scotch. Just a glass of wine would loosen things up. Do you think you could sneak something in to me? Just a small bottle, it wouldn’t . . .
Cut to the ceramic cat by the coffee mug.
Mary should have been back by now. She knows how worried I get when she’s gone this long. You never know who’s listening in on your conversations—the IRS or the FBI or some other government agency that wants more taxes. They’ll bleed you dry.
Close-up of Hemingway typing, showing the nearly blank page in front of him.
T
he biggest fear of a writer is running dry, you know. Of getting to the point where the words are all jumbled and locked away and you can see them right there, almost hold them in your hand, but you can’t reach them, can’t get them out, and when you do, they don’t come in the right order.
That’s why I need to get back to Finca Vigía. There are manuscripts waiting for me, in a bank vault. But I’m here. Trapped like a rat. Waiting for the end. Waiting for destruction.
Extreme close-up of Hemingway, just the eyes.
I’ve always believed you can destroy a man but you cannot defeat him. Defeat happens in here, deep within, a place you can’t touch from the outside. God’s little garden, as someone said. The heart . . .
Now if you won’t promise to bring that bottle, you’ll have to excuse me.
Camera moves out of the room, into the hall, and Hemingway closes the door.
CHAPTER 14
TREHA NOTICED a darkness to Ms. Millstone’s office. It wasn’t just the closed blinds and the dark color the walls had been painted, nor the soft, green glow from the banker’s lamp on the desk. It was the deep-brown carpeting that enveloped her. Her head began the familiar spinning that signaled some reaction, perhaps to the glue used to adhere the carpet or the chemicals used to clean it. She tried to take a deep breath as she entered.
The familiar pictures and artwork she’d come to relate with Mrs. Howard were gone. Empty bookshelves were filled. Treha counted three clocks, all with precisely the same time. She noticed a single sheet of paper on the desk, like a to-do list. A framed motivational print hung across from the desk. It had the word Excellence above a quote that made managing the facility seem like a climb up Mt. Everest. The photo showed a snowcapped mountain and climbers. Treha wondered what defined the top of her mountain.
“Close the door, please,” Ms. Millstone said.
Treha obeyed, then sat in the fresh leather of an overstuffed chair and tried to calm her heartbeat and the spinning. Her fingers were typing, moving across the invisible keyboard on her lap.
“Well, this is not going to be easy for either of us, so I might as well get to the point. We’re letting you go.”
It took a moment for Treha to form the words. “Excuse me?”
“Your time at this institution has come to an end, Ms. Langsam. I’d like you to gather your things.”
“I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”
Ms. Millstone picked up a file. “I don’t want to go through the accusations. I’m simply willing to move ahead.”
“What accusations?”
“In your file there are certain incidents that crop up.”
“What incidents?” Treha said.
The woman took a deep breath and glanced at one of the clocks. “You’re upsetting the residents.”
“The residents love me.”
“Yes, well, there are those who say you may have contributed to Dr. Crenshaw’s stroke.”
Treha sat still, eyes focused on Millstone’s desk, like she was at the Laundromat again.
“Is that a possibility? Did you do something to him? Other residents say he seemed distressed after seeing you the evening before last.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I visited him like I do every evening before I leave.”
“Correct, and others say he was agitated after that. If this got back to the family, that a staff member was upsetting him, they would ask questions.” She adjusted her glasses and opened the file. “If this were the only complaint, I might overlook it, but here’s one from Mr. Reynolds, saying you stole something from his room. From his desk.”
“That’s Hemingway. He filed a report that I stole his manuscript and the carbon copies and that I won’t give them back.”
“That sounds malicious to me.”
“He’s not malicious; he’s mixed up.” Treha ran her hands along the armrests of the leather chair and let her fingers sink deeply. “It’s easier for him to think he is someone else.”
“There are others who feel uncomfortable with you. Coworkers. I am concerned about how much free rein you have.”
“Mrs. Howard said I was a great asset.”
“Well, Mrs. Howard is leaving, isn’t she?” Millstone folded her hands on top of the page. “Ms. Langsam, it’s time for you to spread your wings instead of staying in this cage.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve helped everyone I could.”
“You’re unqualified. If you simply did your job, the janitorial work, I might have a different opinion, but this is not what you do.”
“I talk to them like they are real people. They feel safe with me.”
“Yes. And what about Elsie? Tell me about your conversation just now. What were you speaking about?”
“We were speaking of Dr. Crenshaw. They were close. She is hurting.”
The woman smiled. “We have counseling services available to the residents. You are not qualified.”
Treha’s eyes continued in a wider arc. “I am her friend.”
“Well, I can’t afford to hire friends. I need qualified workers.”
“Some of them are talking for the first time in years.”
Millstone closed her eyes. “I’m aware of your ‘gift.’ I’m sure you’ll be able to use it elsewhere.”
Treha looked at the carpet and thought of Mrs. Howard’s words. How she was supposed to make a connection with the woman, if that was possible. She locked eyes with Millstone. “My bicycle was stolen this morning. This is the only job I have. Please. I’ll do whatever you ask. I won’t speak to anyone.”
The woman’s body grew tense and she leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “Would you please stop that movement? I’m getting dizzy watching you.”
Treha closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“It’s unnerving.” She stood, came around the front of the desk, and leaned back, her feet almost touching Treha’s.
“If this is about money, you could lower my salary.”
“This is not about . . . This is about what’s best for the residents.”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
A heavy sigh. “So you’ll stick to cleaning floors? You’ll do the janitorial work without interacting with anyone?”
Treha nodded. “If that’s what it takes to let me stay.” She looked up again, then saw the revulsion in the woman’s face and lowered her eyes.
Millstone crossed her arms. “All right. Here’s how it will work. You’ll be on probation. I’ll give you one more chance. But if I find you talking to the residents or interacting in any way, just one infraction and you’ll be asked to leave. Do you understand?”
Treha nodded and typed thank you on the unseen keyboard.
She glanced at Excellence as she exited, her head light from the glue and paint. She looked back at Millstone as the woman turned to her to-do list.
Without glancing up, she said, “I’ll be watching you, Treha.”
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 19
Wide shot of Miriam Howard, standing in front of the half-eaten cake, a microphone to her mouth.
I knew this day would come. But I had no idea it would be this difficult. I’ve always looked forward to my retirement. And I still do. But it’s come so quickly. I’ve heard people talk about the brevity of life—I’ve heard some of you talk about it.
Cutaway shots of residents watching, wiping tears, smiling, adjusting hearing aids.
Cut back to Miriam.
There’s a proverb that says, “The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.” That’s the truth. But it doesn’t describe how quickly the afternoon gets here. It felt like morning such a short time ago.
It’s been a pleasure to serve you. A joy to be your friend. Some of you knew my mother as she came to live here. And I think of her and of all those who are not here today, friends we’ve known and loved and cared for. I like to think they’re looking down on us and wishing they
could have some of this delicious cake we’ve enjoyed.
Cutaway of laughter and smiles. Back to tight shot of Miriam.
When I was younger, I wanted to conquer the world. I wanted to find cures for diseases. I looked at a place like this as necessary, but not attractive. But an opportunity opened for me and I went through that door. Buck came along at about the same time and we’ve walked through this together. And I want you to know I wouldn’t have missed it.
Cutaway to Buck Davis, wiping away tears.
Thank you for loving me and accepting me. I have a feeling you haven’t seen the last of me. And I know you’re going to enjoy the leadership of Ms. Millstone and the experience she brings to this job. I hope you will welcome her as you have welcomed me.
From the bottom of my heart . . .
Tight shot of Miriam holding the microphone away.
Cutaway to her husband, Charlie, watching from the corner.
Cut back to Miriam.
Thank you . . . for the honor of allowing me to serve you for a little while. God bless you all.
CHAPTER 15
MIRIAM’S VOICE trembled as she spoke, which was a new sensation. This job was so old, so routine, that emotion surprised her. But as she scanned the room, her astigmatism compounded by the tears, she saw blurry faces, treasures in wrinkled bodies, and it hit her, what she was about to do, the step she was about to take.
Devin and Jonah had shown up with their camera, much to the chagrin of Jillian Millstone. This “passage” was something they wanted to document. Seeing Millstone’s glare when she gave them permission to film, Miriam wondered what would happen to their project.
Most surprising was that Treha was nowhere in the room. Where had the girl gone?
Millstone stood surveying her kingdom, as if Desert Gardens were now her manifest destiny—which it was. There was a foot-tapping quality to her as she stood in the back, waiting for the festivities to end.
Miriam had officiated many farewells and birthday parties but had never seen this much emotion, even at funerals. Residents hobbled to the microphone or it was taken to them and they spoke of her as if she were a member of their family. Listening to their halting thoughts and heartfelt expressions was like watching a continuous loop of On Golden Pond.