"You're Mrs. Mallory's son?"
"Yes. Chuck."
"So this is truly a family business."
"Mom, Dad, my uncle, me, and my brother and sister do the main work, and we have good help for the rest."
They stood in a long hall off which several bright doorways opened. A narrow, double-banister stairway with thick and secure carpeting descended into the foyer. A personage or two shuffled from one room to the other, but the inhabitants were mostly heard and not seen: some reedy singers accompanying Joe Feeney, a dialogue amongst raised voices, and one hoarse mantra that he could not make out. Chuck pointed Creegan to a small office on the right.
The workspace looked out onto the porch and had a neat, snug, utilitarian feel. The payables in the in-box were current. Up-to-date regulatory volumes lined a shelf above the oak desk, and nursing certificates, organizational awards, and signed photographs filled the walls. He recognized Robert Moses and Elise McKenna amongst them.
He had just sat when a short, matronly lady with graying blonde hair swept in and shook his hand before he could rise. Mrs. Mallory wore the same casual uniform as her son. She released his hand and slipped in comfortably behind the desk. Creegan figured her to be his own age, with plenty of vigorous years left in her. She yanked the chain on the green-glass desk lamp and got right to the point.
"You're looking for a place for your mother, Mr. Creegan. Is this your first stop?"
"No. I've been scouting for a while. My sister and I looked at a couple more places this past weekend. One was pretty huge, and frankly, I found it too impersonal. The other one was just shabby. But Mrs. Hardy's family referred me here. They're very satisfied, and they heard there was a vacancy."
"How old is your mom?"
"Seventy-four. Still gets around pretty well, but she can't be left alone. We've had her from household to household amongst us kids, but not everyone has an adult at home all day. She . . . has conversations . . . with people who aren't there."
"What about anxiety? Does she get upset with her situation?"
"A little. Will that get worse?"
"Maybe, or it might go the other way—a complete withdrawal. But I can tell you that some of our residents seem to recover themselves when they have constant company in their own age group. Everybody's different. When I take you around, you'll see that most of our people are quite mobile, and there's not much in the way of fretfulness. We're small, so we can be selective. I'd have to interview your mom before any final decisions could be made, of course. How's her vision and hearing?"
"Eyesight's fine, but she's lost hearing on both sides.” Which doesn't prevent her from picking up those persistent voices that no one else can hear.
"What about a hearing aid? The better that people can connect with sights and sounds, the better we can work with them."
"She refused to wear one when she was fit, and that hasn't changed."
"Hmm. All right, let's take you around before we talk about costs and medical concerns.” She rose up and was off.
As they crossed the hall, he noted the sound alarm installed on the exit to the porch, and assumed there was one on every door. Mrs. Mallory led him through an archway into a large, well-lit parlor filled with stuffed chairs, divans, and small, well-stocked bookcases. No TV in this room, but an upright piano occupied a corner. Two card tables—one taken by a male quartet of pinochle players who looked as if they were pondering affairs of state—took up the center of the cheerful but stuffy room.
Creegan observed white- or wispy-haired heads of both sexes leaning toward one another in conversation. A few solitaries studied books under strong lamplight; others seemed to be searching inwardly for something elusive. The curious looked up as they passed through, and he exchanged smiles with some.
All the time, though, he was searching for the bruising, the distressed stares, or the torpor he had seen elsewhere. Nothing so obvious here, although one ancient lady sat nearly bowed in upon herself. A fresh-faced young woman in the Mallory livery sat on the arm of her chair and gently rubbed the withered arm, saying, “Alice, sweetie, it's almost time for dinner. Alice."
The cooking smell intensified as they moved toward the rear of the room and back out into the hall. Lifted noses were sniffing out the composition and progress of the imminent meal. Right across the hall was the dining room where a long table was set with sturdy, bone-colored crockery. The tablecloth and folded napkins were fresh and almost spotless.
"How many residents?” Creegan asked, counting twenty-one settings.
"We can accommodate twenty-two."
French doors led from the dining room into the TV lounge, but they were closed. Creegan crossed to them and looked through.
"As you can see, we recreate and dine on the lower floor, Mr. Creegan. There are two floors of bedrooms. We have a lift installed on the rear stairway for those in need, but most of the residents can still take the main stairs to their rooms."
He put his nose close to the thick, wavy glass. Some of the folks were intent on the big screen, but just as many seemed to be merely listening, as if it were a radio broadcast. Chuck stood post in their midst.
Then Creegan noticed a familiar face.
"Let me say hello to Mrs. Hardy,” he said, putting a hand on the cut-glass knob.
"Oh, I don't think she'll know you. She rarely recognizes her own family when they come."
He looked again at the woman he had called “Aunt” Cordie when relatives and neighbors were often indistinguishable. She had been a strict but sociable person, sharp as a whip, dispensing recipes, household tips, and unabashed scolding for years on end. Now she sat in a wheelchair with a tray board hemming her in. There was still something cantankerous in her outward stare, but the focus was not on the world around her. Her hands grasped the sides of the chair like someone steadying herself against acceleration.
But in his head, Cordie's voice of old said clearly, “You came all the way out to the Lake and you didn't say hello to me, you ungrateful..."
A heavy bundle thudded once, twice, thrice down through enclosed space with a sharp, accompanying thwack of something against paneling. A quavering female voice cried out, “Oh!” and “Oh! Oh! Oh!” like a customized alarm. Creegan pivoted and went back into the hall, glancing automatically at his watch.
An old woman in a loose black-and-white checked dress stood in the foyer at the foot of the stairs with her fists pressed against her withered bosom. The clothing and her gray hair and pale skin gave her a disturbingly de-colorized look. Her body was atremble with something beyond emotion, no longer controllable. At her feet, Chuck and the young woman from the parlor were kneeling over someone. Mrs. Mallory accelerated past Creegan and displaced the youngsters as if she had a force field around her. When Creegan reached them, he saw an old man on his back with his neck sharply askew and his lower limbs still on the bottom steps. The gray woman kept chanting, “Oh! Oh!” as if all other words had deserted her.
Another voice sounded out from up the stairs, male and better controlled. “Who was that that fell?” it asked. “Who was that?"
Creegan looked up to see another old fellow standing just a few steps from the top and to one side of the stairs, both hands grasping the banister as if for dear life. He wore steel gray slacks with a respectable crease and a checked flannel shirt buttoned at cuff and throat. One ear was cocked toward the hubbub, but his eyes were aimed at the wallpaper near his face. He held his position rigidly, apparently awaiting an answer before venturing to move.
Residents were coming out into the hall. Creegan said to the hovering son, “Chuck, why don't you and the young lady keep the hall clear."
"We have to feed these folks soon."
"Fine, but let's keep them away from this end. You and—I'm sorry, what's your name, miss?"
"Jeanine Mallory."
"The way these rooms are interconnected, you and Jeanine should be able to keep this space isolated."
Creegan supposed the staff had h
ad to improvise around medical emergencies before, but maybe they were waiting for the nod from their mother. She, however, was single-mindedly ensuring that there was nothing to be done for the fallen man.
Creegan took out his ID and showed it to the kids with a reassuring nod.
"I wouldn't have taken you for a policeman,” the girl said, but the authority sufficed to activate her and her brother. The hall was emptied quickly of spectators, including the gray lady, though a surge of dialogue rose up from around corners.
"Who was that that fell?” the man called again.
"Wait there a moment, sir,” Creegan called up. “You're okay?"
"I'm fine, but some poor devil took a tumble. How is he?"
"Wait there, sir."
Creegan looked down as Mrs. Mallory knelt back on her haunches. The slight man who had taken the fall was certainly dead, probably from spinal shock. The small balding head was at right angles to narrow shoulders, nuzzling an empty bulge of shapeless, brown sweater. His thin legs were elevated two steps above the floor and his arms were at his sides, as if they had not participated. Roomy trousers had slid up to reveal bare, bony ankles. He had no socks, and one of his beat-up moccasins had come off.
Creegan squatted and checked for a pulse in the cruelly distorted neck.
"You can try your stethoscope, but I think we can agree we won't need the EMTs. You might call the precinct, though."
"Of course, but..."
"I'll get on with them when you get through. Ask for the shift commander and tell them that Lieutenant Creegan is here. What's the dead man's name?"
"Bernard Strozier. I don't understand. He was so spry we had him up on the third floor."
Creegan leaned over Strozier, whose facial muscles had set obstinately in a peevish frown. He signed a tight, small cross above the troubled countenance and spoke quietly, “Rest in peace now, Bernard.” Yet, how souls could move peacefully away from such violent ends was one of the antinomies of Creegan's vocation.
"Did you say Bernard?” called the man on the stairs.
Creegan stepped carefully around the corpse and moved up, counting eleven steps until he was beside the old man with the two-handed clutch on the polished rail.
Creegan put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The man's face had turned to his presence like a sunflower's, clean shaven, thin hair still holding a hint of its original darkness, the features not so ravaged by the aging that had taken away its sight. Maybe blindness worked like a cosmetic, smoothing away the attrition caused by the constant exchange of signals.
"Are you a police officer?"
"Yes, Lieutenant Frank Creegan. What's your name, sir?"
"Leon. Leon Tesler. How's Bernard down there?"
"He took a very bad fall."
"You told him to . . . RIP. Is he dead?"
"I'm afraid so."
Creegan watched Leon's face, which seemed to drop into a remove beyond blindness. The space on the stairs was narrow, but two people could brush safely by going in either direction. Leon's buff-shined leather loafers were close together on the same step, far enough away from the wall to force him to lean into the rail for balance but not far enough to block or trip up another person.
The upper hall, a long corridor with five doors down the sides and a bathroom at the end, was lit by small, low-watt bulbs in sconces. It had the same smooth carpeting, dark wainscoting, and rose-strewn wallpaper as the stairs.
"I'm going to lead you down, Leon, because of your vision. I don't want you to stumble over Mr. Strozier or his shoe."
Leon immediately let go of one hand and faced forward. Creegan took the outboard arm and said, “We'll go to the front office so I can ask you a few questions in private."
"There's not much to say. I can't see, and I didn't even know who was coming by when he fell."
"I understand, but we have to be thorough."
Two steps above Strozier's exposed ankles, Leon stopped. Creegan shifted him to the other side of the stairs. “Hold the banister and put your other hand on my shoulder."
As they reached the bottom, Jeanine was coming down the hall with a folded sheet.
"Can't I cover Bernie?” she said huskily.
"Okay, but just throw it over him lightly."
"Hello, dear,” Leon said in her direction.
Creegan let Leon steer himself toward the office. He walked confidently after a brief touch to the newel but stopped after a few paces.
"My God,” he said, “it smells like a latrine out here."
There was, indeed, a rival to the dinner smells.
"That's what happens sometimes when people die suddenly."
"I remember. I was in the infantry in World War I.” He tarried a moment longer and then resumed his bullish stride. His legs were not hobbled by age, and Creegan imagined a younger version in a mad footrace through No Man's Land.
Mrs. Mallory was using the phone on her desk. Leon stopped politely in the doorway when he heard her voice. Creegan nudged him gently into the room and to a chair in front of the desk. The woman had just gotten through to Deputy Inspector Mott at the Third. She rose up and extended the phone.
Before exiting, she stopped to put a hand on Leon's shoulder and murmured something that made him smile up in her general direction.
"Hi, Ray,” Creegan said. “Hold on a second."
"Mrs. Mallory, is everyone down from the upper floors?"
"I'll check."
"Use the rear stairs, please, and if anyone still has to come down, they should also."
"Whattaya got there, Frank?"
"An elderly man with a broken neck. Just happened."
"Johnny-on-the spot. What do you need?"
"Oh, a couple of patrol cars, the examiner, Crime Scene, pair of plainclothes."
"That's quite a lineup for an accident. Need anyone from your crew?"
"Ask Lieutenant Stout to shake a man loose, please. Better safe than sorry. Tell your boys to use lights but no sirens, and parking's kind of tight; they'll have to double park or borrow some driveways."
"Good thing you're there, Frank. I feel blessed."
As Creegan replaced the receiver, Leon said, “You have a lot of troops coming."
Creegan tried to read the face again, but it seemed disconnected from the emerging words.
"Tell me exactly what happened, Mr. Tesler."
"Well, I was starting down the stairs for dinner when I sensed someone coming behind me. I squeezed over because they were in a hurry and then the person went rushing by. Must have missed a step. He went down and I hung on to the banister because he put me off balance. The adrenaline got into my hands and I couldn't let go till you came up to get me."
"How do you mean sensed him coming'?"
Leon thought about it. “I heard foot scuffs, fast ones, on the hall rug, a little bump against the wall like somebody was unsteady, the other banister rattling, a squeak like a slipped grip, but all close together."
"Was he running?"
Leon gave a grim little laugh. “No one runs anymore by the time they get to this place, but he was moving pretty quick."
"He didn't say anything on the stairs, like excuse me’ or gang way'?"
"No, sir. He was quiet for a change, and besides he's not famous for politeness. He may have let out a grunt when he fell, like when you get hit in the gut."
Leon was sitting up straight with both feet on the floor, his arms on the leather rests, a picture of composure and recollection.
"I'm glad you couldn't see the result of his fall,” Creegan said.
The old man hesitated, turning slightly as if to locate a new and distant sound. “It was bad, was it?"
"Yes, like a man taken down from the gallows. Mrs. Mallory said he was a sprightly guy but obviously not nimble enough to break his fall and save himself."
The misted eyes ruminated in silence. Then, “I heard a woman down below after he fell. It sounded very much like my friend Patricia. She sounded upset. Did she see him fal
l? That would be terrible for her if she did."
"I haven't spoken to that woman . . . yet. Thin, with a checked dress?"
"Yes, she's slender. I'm not sure about what she had on."
"How bad exactly is your vision?"
"It's a complete blur in the middle. I have a little peripheral sight, but I can't read or watch TV anymore. But that's all right. There's still the radio. I know this place well enough to get around, and there's plenty of things I can do to help and plenty of good conversation."
"The power of positive thinking."
"Yes! I met that man once at a convention. He shook my hand and said, Leon, whenever life hands you a lemon, use it to make lemonade.’ There's a lot of sense in that attitude.” The memory had automated a fond smile.
Chuck was at the door. “Dinner's ready. Is that okay?"
"Sure. Are you hungry, Mr. Tesler?"
"Oh, nothing puts me off my feed!” A ready line for every situation. Well, maybe over time memory banks had all the deposits they needed.
"Do me a favor, Mr. Tesler. Please let Chuck set a place for you in the kitchen. I need to talk to you a little more, and I don't want you drained by all the questions your friends will be throwing at you. Do you mind?"
"Oh, no, of course not!” Leon said theatrically, after the slightest pause.
* * * *
The residents had a bit of dinner theater that evening, pausing between forkfuls of mashed potatoes and flaky pot roast to observe what they could of the police activity in the hall. Though accustomed to the passing of housemates, they had not seen such a fuss about it in a long while.
A patrolman and his sergeant arrived first and kept the lower and upper hallways clear. The pair of plainclothes showed next. One of them was Maria Vargas, who had been in Creegan's old precinct when they'd both been uniforms. She had been a stick then, but now the years and a more sedentary life were changing that. Yet, the clear olive skin, piled brunette hair, deep brown eyes, and ample bosom still added up to an eye-catcher, especially with that burnt orange nail polish. Maria nodded at him, her eyes wide with apparent pleasure, awakening an old tension. Strange how past attachments can flare to life as if the interval of time has never been.
AHMM, October 2010 Page 3