by John Grisham
The ambulance arrives, and Ms. Harriet is loaded up and taken away. Nurse Angel and Ms. Drell huddle nervously with each other and begin flipping through the paperwork. I return to the South Wing and lock the evidence in a drawer. I'll take it home in a few hours.
The following day, a man in a suit arrives from some regional office and wants to interview me about what happened. He's not a lawyer, those will show up later, and he's not particularly bright. He begins by explaining to Gary and me exactly what he thinks we saw and did during the crisis, and we let him ramble. He goes on to assure us that Ms. Harriet was properly fed and medicated—it's all right there in the notes—and that Rita had simply gone outside for a smoke and fell ill, which required her to dash home for a moment before returning, only to find the “unfortunate” situation relative to Ms. Harriet.
I play dumb, my speciality. Gary does too; it's more natural for him, but he's also worried about his job. I am not. The idiot finally leaves, and does so with the impression that he has eased into our little redneck town and skillfully put out yet another fire for good old HVQH Group.
Ms. Harriet spends a week in the hospital with a cracked skull. She lost a lot of blood, and there's probably some more brain damage, though how the hell can you measure it? Regardless, it's a beautiful lawsuit, in the hands of the right person.
Because of the popularity of these lawsuits, and the sheer number of vultures circling nursing homes, I have learned that one must move with haste. My lawyer is an old friend named Dexter Ridley, from Tupelo, a man I turn to on occasion. Dex is about fifty, with a couple of wives and lives under his belt, and he made the decision a few years ago that he could not survive in the business by drawing up deeds and filing no-fault divorces. Dex stepped up a notch and became a litigator, though he seldom actually goes to trial. His real talent is filing big lawsuits, then huffing and puffing until the other side settles. He's got billboards with his smiling face on them scattered around north Mississippi.
I drive to Tupelo on a day off, show him the color photos of Ms. Harriet naked and bleeding, show him the copies of the attendants1 notes, both before the tampering and after, and we strike a deal. Dex kicks into high gear, contacts the family of Harriet Markle, and within a week of the incident notifies HVQH that they have a real problem. He won't mention me and my photos and my purloined records until he has to. With such inside information, the case will likely be settled quickly, and I'll be unemployed once again.
By order from the home office, Ms. Wilma Drell suddenly becomes very nice. She calls me in and tells me that my performance has improved so dramatically that I'm getting a raise. From six bucks an hour to seven, and I'm not to tell anyone else on the floor. I give her a load of sappy thanks, and she's convinced we're bonding now.
Late that night, I read Mr. Spurlock a magazine story about a developer in Tennessee who's trying to bulldoze a neglected Civil War battlefield so he can throw up another strip mall and some cheap condos. The locals and the preservation types are fighting, but the developer has the money and the politics on his side. Lyle is upset by this, and we talk at length about ways to help the good guys. He doesn't mention his last will and testament, and it's still too soon for me to make a move.
*
In retirement homes, birthdays are a big deal, and for obvious reasons. You'd better celebrate 'em while you can. There's always a party in the cafeteria, with cake and candles and ice cream, photos and songs and such. We, the staff, work hard at creating merriment and noise, and we try our best to drag out the festivities for at least thirty minutes. About half the time a few family members will be here, and this heightens the mood. If no family is present, we work even harder. Each birthday might be the last, but I guess that's true for all of us. Truer for some, though.
Lyle Spurlock turns eighty-five on December 2, and his loudmouth daughter from Jackson shows up, along with two of her kids and three of her grandchildren, and along with her customary barrage of complaints, demands, and suggestions, all in a noisy and lame effort to convince her beloved father that she cares so deeply about him that she must raise hell with us. They bring balloons and silly hats, a store-bought coconut cake (his favorite), and several cheap gifts in gaudy boxes, things like socks and handkerchiefs and stale chocolates. A granddaughter rigs up a boom box and plays Hank Williams (his alleged favorite) in the background. Another mounts a display of enlarged black-and-white photos of young Lyle in the army, young Lyle walking down the aisle (the first time), young Lyle posing this way and that so many decades ago. Most of the residents are present, as are most of the employees, including Rozelle from the kitchen, though I know she's there for the cake and not out of any affection for the birthday boy. At one point Wilma Drell gets too close to Lyle, who, off his saltpeter, makes an awkward and obvious grab for her ample ass. He gets a handful. She yelps in horror, and almost everyone laughs as though it's just part of the celebration, but it's obvious to me that Queen Wilma is not amused. Then Lyle's daughter overreacts badly by squawking at him, slapping his arm, and scolding him, and for a few seconds the mood is tense. Wilma disappears and is not seen for the rest of the day. I doubt if she's had that much fun in years.
After an hour the party loses steam, and several of our friends begin to nod off. The daughter and her brood pack quickly and are soon gone. Hugs and kisses and all that, but it's a long way back to Jackson, Daddy. Lyle's eighty-fifth celebration is soon over. I escort him back to his room, carrying his gifts, talking about Gettysburg.
Just after bedtime, I ease into his room and deliver my gift. A few hours of research, and a few phone calls to the right people, and I learned that there was indeed a Captain Joshua Spurlock who fought in the Tenth Mississippi Infantry Regiment at the Battle of Shiloh. He was from Ripley, Mississippi, a town not far from where Lyle's father was born, according to my fact-checking. I found an outfit in Nashville that specializes in Civil War memorabilia, both real and fake, and paid them $80 for their work. My gift is a matted and framed Certificate of Valor, awarded to Captain Spurlock, and flanked on the right by a Confederate battle flag and on the left by the Tenth Regiment's official insignia. It's not meant to be anything other than what it is—a very handsome and very bogus re-creation of something that never existed in the first place—but for someone as consumed with past glory as Lyle, it is the greatest of all gifts. His eyes water as he holds it. The old man is now ready for heaven, but not so fast.
“This is beautiful,” he says. “I don't know what to say. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Spurlock. He was a brave soldier.”
“Yes, he was.”
*
Promptly at midnight, I deliver my second gift.
Lyle's roommate is Mr. Hitchcock, a frail and fading gent who's a year older than Lyle but in much worse shape. I'm told he lived a pure life, free from alcohol, tobacco, and other vices, yet there's not much left. Lyle chased women his entire life, caught many of them, and at one time chain-smoked and hit the bottle hard. After years in this work I'm convinced that DNA is at least half the solution, or half the problem.
Anyway, at pill time I juiced Mr. Hitchcock with a stronger sleeping pill, and he's in another world. He won't hear a thing.
Miss Ruby, who I'm sure has been hitting the Jimmy with her usual fealty, follows my instructions perfectly and parks her massive Cadillac next to the Dumpster just outside the back entrance to the kitchen. She crawls out of the driver's side, already giggling, glass in hand. From the passenger's side I get my first glimpse of Mandy, one of Miss Ruby's “better” girls, but it's not the time for introductions. “Shhhh,” I whisper, and they follow me through the darkness, into the kitchen, into the dimly lit cafeteria, where we stop for a second.
Miss Ruby says proudly, “Now, Gill, this is Mandy.”
We shake hands. “A real pleasure,” I say.
Mandy barely offers a smile. Her face says, “Let's just get this over with.” She's about forty, a bit plump, heavily made up, but unable t
o hide the strains of a hard life. The next thirty minutes will cost me $200.
All lights are low at Quiet Haven, and I glance down the south hall to make sure no one is stirring. Then we, Mandy and I, walk quickly to room 18, where Mr. Hitchcock is comatose but Mr. Spurlock is walking the floor, waiting. He looks at her, she looks at him. I offer a quick “Happy Birthday,” then close the door and backtrack.
Miss Ruby and I wait in the cafeteria, drinking. She has her toddy. I sip from her flask, and I have to admit that after three months the bourbon is not as bad as it was. “She's a sweetheart,” Miss Ruby is saying, thoroughly delighted that she has once again managed to bring people together.
“A nice girl,” I say, mindlessly.
“She started working for me when she dropped out of high school. Terrible family. Couple of bad marriages after that. Never had a break. I just wish I could keep her busier. It's so hard these days. Women are so loose they don't charge for it anymore.”
Miss Ruby, a career and unrepentant madam, is bemoaning the fact that modern women are too loose. I think about this for a second, then take a sip and let it pass.
“How many girls do you have now?”
“Just three, all part-time. Used to have a dozen, and kept them very busy.”
“Those were the days.”
“Yes, they were. The best years of my life. You reckon we could find some more business here at Quiet Haven? I know in prison they set aside one day a week for conjugal visits. Ever thought about the same here? I could bring in a couple of girls one night a week, and I'm sure it would be easy work for them.”
“That's probably the worst idea I've heard in the past five years.”
Sitting in the shadows, I see her red eyes turn and glare at me. “I beg your pardon,” she hisses.
“Take a drink. There are fifteen men confined to this place, Miss Ruby, average age of, oh, let's say eighty. Off the cuff, five are bedridden, three are brain-dead, three can't get out of their wheelchairs, and so that leaves maybe four who are ambulatory. Of the four, I'd wager serious money that only Lyle Spurlock is capable of performing at some level. You can't sell sex in a nursing home.”
“I've done it before. This ain't my first rodeo.” And with that she offers one of her patented smoke-choked cackles, then starts coughing. She eventually catches her breath, just long enough to settle things down with a jolt of Jim Beam.
“Sex in a nursing home,” she says, chuckling. “Maybe that's where I'm headed.”
I bite my tongue.
When the session is over, we quickly get through a round of awkward good-byes. I watch the Cadillac until it is safely off the premises and out of sight, then finally relax. I've actually arranged such a tryst once before. Ain't my first rodeo.
Lyle is sleeping like an infant when I check on him. Dentures out, mouth sagging, but lips turned up into a pleasant smile. If Mr. Hitchcock has moved in the past three hours, I can't tell. He'll never know what he missed. I check the other rooms and go about my business, and when all is quiet, I settle into the front desk with some magazines.
*
Dex says the company has mentioned more than once the possibility of settling the Harriet Markle lawsuit before it's actually filed. Dex has hinted strongly to them that he has inside information regarding a cover-up—tampered-with paperwork and other pieces of evidence that Dex knows how to skillfully mention on the phone when talking to lawyers who represent such companies. HVQH says it would like to avoid the publicity of a nasty suit. Dex assures them it'll be nastier than they realize. Back and forth, the usual lawyer routines. But the upshot for me is that my days are numbered. If my affidavit and photos and filched records will hasten a nice settlement, then so be it. I'll happily produce the evidence, then move along.
Mr. Spurlock and I play checkers most nights at 8:00 in the cafeteria, long after dinner and an hour before I officially punch the clock. We are usually alone, though a knitting club meets on Mondays in one corner, a Bible club gathers on Tuesdays in another, and a small branch of the Ford County Historical Society meets occasionally wherever they can pull three or four chairs together. Even on my nights off, I usually stop by at 8:00 for a few games. It's either that or drink with Miss Ruby and gag on her secondhand smoke.
Lyle wins nine games out of ten, not that I really care. Since his encounter with Mandy his left arm has been bothering him. It feels numb, and he's not as quick with his words. His blood pressure is up slightly, and he's complained of headaches. Since I have the key to the pharmacy, I've put him on Nafred, a blood thinner, and Silerall for stroke victims. I've seen dozens of strokes, and my diagnosis is just that. A very slight stroke, one unnoticeable to anyone else, not that anyone is paying attention. Lyle is a tough old coot who does not complain and does not like doctors and would take a bullet before he called his daughter and whined about his health.
“You told me you never made a will,” I say casually as I stare at the board. There are four ladies playing cards forty feet away, and believe me, they cannot hear us. They can barely hear each other.
“I've been thinkin' about that,” he says. His eyes are tired. Lyle has aged since his birthday, since Mandy, since his stroke.
“What's in the estate?” I ask, as if I could not care less.
“Some land, that's about all.”
“How much land?”
“Six hundred and forty acres, in Polk County.” He smiles as he pulls off a double jump.
“What's the value?”
“Don't know. But it's free and clear.”
I haven't paid for an official appraisal, but according to two agents who specialize in such matters, the land is worth around $500 an acre.
“You mentioned putting some money aside to help preserve Civil War battlefields.”
This is exactly what Lyle wants to hear. He lights up, smiles at me, and says, “That's a great idea. That's what I want to do.” For the moment, he's forgotten about the game.
“The best organization is an outfit in Virginia, the Confederate Defense Fund. You gotta be careful. Some of these nonprofits give at least half their money to build monuments to honor the Union forces. I don't think that's what you have in mind.”
“Hell no.”
His eyes flash hot for a second, and Lyle is once again ready for battle. “Not my money,” he adds.
“I'll be happy to serve as your trustee,” I say, and move a checker.
“What does that mean?”
“You name the Confederate Defense Fund as the recipient of your estate, and upon your death the money goes into a trust so that I, or whomever you choose, can watch the money carefully and make sure it's accounted for.”
He's smiling. “That's what I want, Gill. That's it.”
“It's the best way—”
“You don't mind, do you? You'd be in charge of everything when I die.”
I clutch his right hand, squeeze it, look him firmly in the eyes, and say, “I'd be honored, Lyle.”
We make a few moves in silence, then I wrap up some loose ends. “What about your family?”
“What about them?”
“Your daughter, your son, what do they get from your estate?”
His response is a cross between a sigh, a hiss, and a snort, and when they are combined with a rolling of the eyes, I know immediately that his dear children are about to get cut out. This is perfectly legal in Mississippi and in most states. When making a will, you can exclude everyone but your surviving spouse. And some folks still try.
“I haven't heard from my son in five years. My daughter has more money than I do. Nothing. They get nothing.”
“Do they know about this land in Polk County?” I ask.
“I don't think so.”
This is all I need.
Two days later, rumors race through Quiet Haven. “The lawyers are coming!” Thanks primarily to me, the gossip has been festering about a massive lawsuit under way in which the family of Ms. Harriet Markle will expose everything and
collect millions. It's partially true, but Ms. Harriet knows nothing about it. She's back in her bed, a very clean bed, well fed and properly medicated, properly supervised, and basically dead to the world.
Her lawyer, the Honorable Dexter Ridley of Tupelo, Mississippi, arrives late one afternoon with a small entourage that consists of his faithful secretary and two paralegals, both wearing suits as dark as Dexter's and both scowling in the finest lawyerly tradition. It's an impressive team, and I've never seen such excitement at Quiet Haven. Nor have I seen the place as spiffed-up and shiny. Even the plastic flowers on the front desk have been replaced by real ones. Orders from the home office.
Dex and his team are met by a junior executive from the company who's all smiles. The official reason for this visit is to allow Dex the opportunity to inspect, examine, photograph, measure, and in general poke around Quiet Haven, and for an hour or so he does this with great skill. This is his specialty. He needs to “get the feel of the place” before he sues it. Anyway, it's all an act. Dex is certain the matter will be settled quietly, and generously, without the actual filing of a lawsuit.
Though my shift doesn't start until 9:00 p.m., I hang around as usual. By now the staff and the residents are accustomed to seeing me at all hours. It's as if I never leave. But I'm leaving, believe me.
Rozelle, working late, is busy preparing dinner, not cooking, she reminds me, just preparing. I stay in the kitchen, pestering her, gossiping, helping occasionally. She wants to know what the lawyers are up to, and as usual I can only speculate, but I do so with a lot of theories. Promptly at 6:00 p.m., the residents start drifting into the cafeteria, and I begin carrying trays of the vapid gruel we serve them. Tonight the Jell-O is yellow.
At precisely 6:30, I swing into action. I leave the cafeteria and walk to room 18, where I find Mr. Spurlock sitting on his bed, reading a copy of his last will and testament. Mr. Hitchcock is down the hall having dinner, so we can talk.