Importance of Being Urnest

by Sandra Balzo

  ‘I was just asking if the guy next door is a senior.’ I could dodge a question, too. ‘He’s living in a senior facility, after all.’

  ‘So what? You think crooks just stop being crooks when they get old?’

  I guess I kind of did. Or maybe that they were in jail or dead by the time they reached their golden years. Hard to live to a ripe old age when you’re addicted to cocaine or robbing banks, I would think. But then, what did I know?

  ‘… In his seventies, though I’m betting he’s had work,’ Sophie was saying.

  ‘Ooooh,’ Christy squealed. ‘Maybe to hide his identity, like in Face/Off.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a whole face transplant?’ Sophie said.

  ‘To change John Travolta into Nicholas Cage and vice versa?’ I said. ‘It would have to be.’

  ‘I assume this was a little tucking and lifting,’ Sophie said. ‘But who knows what the guy is into?’

  ‘So exciting.’ Christy was fanning herself with her hand, like she was going to pass out.

  ‘Hopefully not for long,’ Sophie said dryly. ‘There have been strange men hanging around. Henry thinks they’re cops but I’m betting it’s mobsters out to whack him. If they do it next Tuesday, I’ll win the pool.’

  Wait. ‘You have a betting pool on the date your neighbor dies? Like people do on the score of a football game?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  A relief.

  Until Sophie opened her mouth again. ‘We’re not singling him out. We have pools for everybody. It’s the only group activity I participate in at the manor. Sure beats trips to the Mitchell Park Domes like today’s big adventure.’

  For my part, I thought the horticultural center was charming. And ‘sure beat’ placing bets on when people are going to die.

  ‘Don’t be looking at me like that,’ Sophie said. ‘Everybody who bets knows that they’re also being bet upon.’

  I was having a ‘soylent green is people’ moment.

  ‘It’s the only fun we have in that place,’ Sophie grumbled. ‘And now you’re making it sound dirty.’

  Excuse me for not being a ghoul.

  FOUR

  Speaking of ghouls, Brookhills’ aspiring ash-sweeper seemed to be on a conversational trajectory of her own.

  ‘… Right to prohibit discrimination against somebody like your neighbor, Sophie,’ Christy was saying. ‘There are very strict guidelines so long as he meets the age requirement.’

  Understandable, given the public funding. Still, it was worrisome to think of grandma and grandpa living out their golden years next to Larry the Torch or Danny the Corner Drug Dealer.

  ‘I had no idea such a thing was possible when I moved in,’ Sophie said. ‘And Henry didn’t think it was a big enough deal to tell me. Everybody deserves a second chance, according to him.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Christy said fervently. ‘Wouldn’t it be awful if, when Ronny gets out, there was no place for him to go?’

  Sophie raised her eyebrows. ‘I assumed he’ll be living at your house. I mean, you did sell his, after all.’

  Christy flushed. ‘Well, of course. I was speaking hypothetically, of course.’

  From the look on Christy’s face, I had a feeling that, as romantic as she imagined her relationship with Ronny was while he was in the slammer, she hadn’t given much thought to his appearing at her tidy little doorstep in ten to twenty.

  But Sophie was still grousing about her love. ‘Go-along to get-along – that’s what Henry does. We had a meeting the other day about the rates on the assisted living and nursing home wings of Brookhills Manor, and you think he’d speak up about the increases? By the time we need care we won’t be able to afford it, and it’ll serve him right.’

  ‘What does it cost?’ Christy asked. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’

  I wasn’t sure it was a deliberate change of subject, but I was grateful. It’s hard when mom and dad fight. Even if they’re not your mom and dad.

  ‘Nearly five grand a month,’ Sophie said. ‘And that’s assisted living, not full nursing care. The new memory unit for Alzheimer’s and dementia is going to be seven thousand a month, I hear.’

  Christy glanced toward the table where Hannah had joined Langdon, Henry and Vickie. ‘I suggested that Hannah consider the manor should the time come when she can’t take care of the ladies anymore.’

  ‘A retirement fund or savings would go fast at that rate,’ I said. ‘Are the fees covered by insurance?’

  ‘Or the government?’ Christy added.

  ‘Government?’ Sophie snorted. ‘Not for what they call long-term care. That kicks in right around the time you’re knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door.’

  Christy cocked her head like a puppy. ‘Isn’t that a song?’

  ‘Bob Dylan,’ I said.

  ‘You are an old soul, Maggy.’ Sophie was nodding her approval. ‘The man is in his seventies now – more my generation than yours.’

  She had a point, though I couldn’t think of Dylan that way. ‘He’s an icon, and icons are ageless.’

  ‘Unlike the people at the manor.’ Sophie wasn’t going to let it go.

  ‘Baggy?’

  The word – though semi-recognizable as my name – was slurred. Gloria was holding up her cup shakily, Oliver grinning proudly next to her.

  I went over and took the cup. ‘The same, Mrs G?’

  A head waggle, with an emphatic, ‘Unleaded.’

  I laughed. This wasn’t a slip of the stroke-impaired tongue – unleaded had been Mrs G’s term for decaf at the lunch counter. ‘One unleaded coming right up.’

  One half of her mouth curved into a smile as she turned back to Oliver and Mort.

  ‘So, tell me who this woman is,’ Sophie said as I handed the cup to Amy to fill.

  ‘You don’t know Gloria Goddard?’

  ‘No, I’ve been living in a hole the last fifty-some years,’ the octogenarian said testily. ‘Of course I know Gloria. I mean the woman you two were talking to when I came in. She’s sitting at the table with Henry and Vickie now.’

  ‘That’s the Hannah I was talking about,’ Christy answered. ‘Hannah Bouchard. She bought Ronny’s house.’

  ‘I saw you had it listed on Craigslist,’ Sophie said. ‘Too big and too expensive for the likes of us.’

  ‘You’re really serious about moving?’ I asked.

  ‘Hell, yes. If Vickie’s smart she’ll start looking for a place, too, before the manor finishes sucking her dry. The woman has an efficiency apartment the size of a postage stamp two doors down from us and even that is costing her a fortune. If I’d thought more, maybe we could have bought the Eisvogel place together.’

  I hadn’t realized that Vickie lived at Brookhills Manor. Somehow she seemed too young, in spite of her seventy-seven years, but maybe that was the Botox and collagen doing their jobs. Or their purported jobs. ‘You trust Vickie around Henry?’ I asked.

  ‘Hell, yeah. They’ve known each other for years and Henry’s not remotely interested. Says Vickie’s way too high maintenance.’ She nodded toward the table where Langdon Shepherd was now laughing at something Vickie had said. ‘Besides, she’s had something going on with somebody for the last few months. I’m just not sure who.’

  Which was likely killing her, if I knew Sophie. ‘Are you thinking she and Langdon might be involved?’

  ‘It has crossed my mind,’ Sophie admitted. ‘For some reason, she’s being very closemouthed about it.’

  ‘Vickie is working at Angel of Mercy now, you know.’ I took Gloria’s now-full cup carefully from Amy.

  ‘This I do know,’ Sophie said. ‘I assume you have a point?’

  I wondered if Sophie was getting sarcasm lessons from Sarah. Or vice versa. ‘Just that if Vickie is dating Langdon while she’s working at Angel of Mercy it could be awkward. Maybe that’s why she’s keeping it quiet.’

  ‘I doubt that Father Jim would care,’ Christy said. ‘It’s not like she’s dating a priest or a m
arried man or something.’

  Like a convicted killer, for example. But I kept my mouth shut and went to deliver Gloria’s refill.

  ‘… By a difference in religion in this day and age,’ Sophie was saying when I came back.

  ‘It could be Langdon who doesn’t want it made public,’ Christy said. ‘The ladies in the altar guild are wild about him. I wouldn’t put it past half of them to quit if he started seeing somebody romantically. And then who would do the work?’

  ‘The men, maybe?’ Sophie suggested. ‘But getting back to Vickie, she went off on a cruise two weeks ago and I’m certain it was with him, whoever it is.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead on a cruise. All those people and germs in a combined space.’ Christy brightened. ‘Though they do have those hand-sanitizer dispensers everywhere.’

  Always an antibacterial lining somewhere for our little germaphobe.

  ‘Cruises aren’t my cup of tea either,’ Sophie admitted. ‘But Vickie came back glowing. Spouting all this nonsense about retiring on a cruise ship and seeing the world.’

  ‘You mean living on a ship year-round?’ I asked. ‘Wouldn’t that be awfully expensive? I thought you said the manor was already bleeding her dry.’

  ‘You know, I’ve heard of this,’ Christy said. ‘Supposedly it’s not that much more than the cost of assisted living. There are things to do, a doctor onboard if you get sick and your food is free – all you can eat, twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘Yeah, and who pays for the crane that has to lift you out of the room once you hit 400 pounds?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘But think of it,’ Christy persisted. ‘It would be like a floating senior home.’

  Sophie snorted. ‘Bad enough living in one on dry land. At least I can jump ship when I need a break away from all the old coots. And what happens when somebody dies? They throw them overboard?’ Her eyes brightened at the thought.

  ‘You’re living among a different demographic than you were before – an older demographic,’ I pointed out. ‘And let’s face it. Eventually we all die.’

  ‘Spoken like somebody who thinks she’s decades away from death,’ Sophie said. ‘And can I please get a refill here?’

  She shoved her still-empty cup across the counter and Amy just about caught it with a bemused grin.

  ‘Temper, temper,’ a voice behind me said. ‘Anybody need absolution? We have a Sunday special.’

  I turned and saw Father Jim, whose entrance must have been covered by Sophie’s whining. ‘Sunday services are over already?’

  ‘Father George took the ten o’clock,’ Jim said, moving up the counter. ‘Which any of you sinners would know if you came to church.’

  ‘Ahem.’ Mort was raising his hand. ‘You’ll recall I was at the eight.’

  ‘Indeed you were, Morton, and a fine tenor you were in the choir as well.’

  Christy giggled. ‘I love it when you speak Irish priest.’

  ‘Don’t encourage the faker,’ I said. Jim and I had dated in high school, way back when. We’d been better friends than sweethearts, and I’d never had the nerve to ask him if the lack of electricity in our relationship had anything to do with him going priest.

  ‘Ah, but the parish expects a Father Jim to be Irish, don’t you know.’ He wasn’t going to stop.

  ‘Despite the fact your family came from Eastern Europe. Romania, right?’

  ‘Hungary, and thank you for remembering.’ Jim was about six inches shorter than Langdon but had twice the energy and probably ten times the sense of humor. I was surprised people weren’t converting in droves. ‘How’s the family back in Switzerland?’

  ‘Norway.’ Which he knew, of course.

  ‘Oh, Father Jim,’ Christy was digging in her purse and came up with a stack of leaflets. ‘Vickie said to ask you if it’s OK to put these in the bulletin.’

  Jim took one. ‘Buy-one-get-one-free cremations?’

  Christy giggled again. ‘No, it’s just a reprint of the story on Mort that the Observer wrote.’

  ‘I do appreciate the soft sell,’ Jim said. ‘Tell you what, it wouldn’t be appropriate to go in the church bulletin but I’ll put it on the bulletin board.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ Christy chirped breathlessly. Maybe the omnist would be one of the converted. If you were in the market for an untouchable man, a priest was even better than a prisoner.

  ‘Done,’ Jim said, slipping the paper into his inside jacket pocket. ‘Now, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Sophie, you were threatening Maggy with death, I believe?’

  Having gotten her coffee, Sophie seemed to have settled down. ‘No, just telling her she had no idea what it is like to be surrounded by people who have one foot in the grave.’

  ‘Or the cremation urn, should you choose that option. Would you like some of the leaflets to take back to the manor?’ Christy was a dog who wasn’t going to drop this stick. ‘Or some of my business cards?’

  I held up my hand as she slipped her purse off her shoulder again.

  She stopped, hand in the bag, and looked up at me. ‘Bad form, you think?’

  ‘I think.’

  She straightened up. ‘Thank you. Sometimes I get carried away with my own enthusiasm.’

  ‘Entirely understandable,’ Sophie said, throwing me an ‘is she crazy or what’ look as she went to join Henry and company. Christy followed.

  ‘Hello, Father Jim.’

  ‘Good morning, Hannah,’ Jim said, turning to greet our new neighbor. ‘And how are you this fine morning? And you brought the lovely Celeste and Nancy, I understand?’

  He just wasn’t going to give up the brogue.

  ‘That was the plan, but I’m afraid I had to take them home,’ she said. ‘Nancy’s not feeling well today – coming down with the flu, she thinks. But the truth is that both she and my mother would rather stay at home with a good book or TV show anyway.’

  ‘It’s good of you to try to get them out. But I’m sorry to hear Nancy is under the weather. Would you like me stop in?’

  ‘I’m afraid a visit from the priest would mean one thing to them.’

  ‘Last rites,’ I said, a shiver going up my spine. ‘My grandmother was the same way.’

  ‘I know it’s silly,’ Hannah said, nodding. ‘But Mother was never a churchgoer, which is perhaps why I am.’

  ‘We do sometimes go the opposite way of our parents,’ Jim said, ‘but whether we see them in church or not, we’ll say a prayer. Nancy has been a godsend, virtually taking over as finance chair when Fred was taken.’ He crossed himself.

  ‘Wait. Fred Lopez died?’ I didn’t think I’d heard right. The man couldn’t be more than fifty and he was a pillar of our banking community.

  ‘Deported.’ Vickie had an empty cup in her hand. ‘And an awful shame, if you ask—’

  Father Jim held up his own hand. ‘A battle we’ve already fought and lost, sadly. I’m just glad that Nancy was willing to fill his shoes.’

  ‘Did Hannah tell you that Nancy asked that you check your email?’ Vickie said in an I-told-you-so tone.

  ‘Shame on me,’ Hannah said. ‘I came up to give you that message and it just went out of my head.’

  ‘She’s likely sent the report for this afternoon’s meeting,’ Jim said, pulling out his phone. ‘It amazes me how technologically savvy Nancy is. Although that’s true of a lot of our older parishioners these days.’

  ‘I think Nancy prefers computers to people. She says she’s sat through enough meetings for one lifetime.’

  Jim was scrolling through his mail. ‘I don’t see anything new here. ‘Do you know when she sent it?’

  ‘I don’t, but I can call the house. I wanted to check on them anyway.’

  As Hannah turned away, Vickie put her cup in the dirty dish bin. ‘If you forward the report to me as soon as you have it, Father, I can print and copy it for the members.’

  ‘Hopefully you’ll have time,’ Jim said, and then broke off. ‘Hannah, are you leaving?’
>
  Our new neighbor turned, one hand on the door and a puzzled look on her face. ‘Yes. Nancy’s not answering the phone.’

  ‘Maybe they’re both lying down,’ Vickie said. ‘Or in the bathroom.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine, but …’

  The door closed behind her.

  FIVE

  Uncommon Grounds closed at three on Sundays, so I’d invited Pavlik over for a late afternoon barbecue. When I got home a little before four, he was sitting on my porch steps, throwing the tennis ball for Frank.

  Or faux throwing it. One of the sheriff’s greatest joys was duping my poor sheepdog by sending him out for a long one: ‘Are you ready? Are you ready? Huh? Huh?’ And then palming the ball even as he pretended to toss it.

  Frank, impeded by both the hair in his face and the trust in his heart, bounded blithely away and turned for the pass. Another arm chug from Pavlik would send the sheepdog first this way and then that, before the human – if not the adult – finally let the ball fly for real.

  ‘Torturing my dog again?’ I asked as Frank dove under the bushes for the ball.

  Pavlik laughed and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Frank loves it. Besides, he’s a big dog living in a small house. He can use the exercise.’

  ‘And you can use the laughs.’ As Frank came running back to his tormenter, I intercepted him and grabbed the ball, intending to toss it properly for him. Instead, I dropped it. Predictably already slimy with dog drool, the trip under the bushes had added mud to the mix. ‘Ugh.’

  ‘You’re right that I can always use a laugh, and I want to thank you for that one.’ The sheriff leaned down to kiss me.

  Pavlik has dark hair he wears just a little long so it curls over his collar. Today he was wearing a blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and jeans. A soft brown leather jacket was draped over a Schultz’s Market bag on the top porch step.

  Despite my non-answer to the sheriff’s marriage proposal, things hadn’t cooled down on either side. In fact, if anything they were hotter. As if we were clinging to each other on a cliff, not knowing quite where our next move might take us.

  ‘Did you bring the steaks?’ I asked a little breathlessly as I slid my hand down to his very nice butt.