by Pat Capponi
“Here we are,” says Jeremy, breaking through my dreamy imaginings, parking the car, and turning in his seat to speak to me. “Right on time. Are we ready, ladies?”
I’m out of the back seat before I realize Miss Semple hasn’t moved. A case of nerves, perhaps? When Jeremy walks around the front and holds the door open for her, dashing in his tweeds, I’m transported to a time I’ve never known. He offers his arm, and Miss Semple daintily accepts; as the help, I trail behind, trying for dignified servility. The lobby is similar to that of a prestigious hotel, small but well appointed. Behind the registration desk, the young receptionist smiles warmly, standing and coming around to join our little circle.
“You must be our eleven o’clock, how wonderful to see you. I’m to take you right in to our director. Please follow me.”
The director is a middle-aged woman in a twin set and pearls, a bad fashion choice for her size, which borders on gargantuan. She rises like Willy, her chair creaking with relief, and gushes welcoming words, aimed exclusively at Jeremy. As he introduces his “cousin,” Mrs. Emmet-Peel, and her companion, Doreen, I find myself relegated to non-entity status. Through the rest of the preliminaries, I am of absolutely no account. I tell myself this is good, that I can use the time to observe, but it bothers me at some seminal level.
Jeremy, taking charge in a no-nonsense, businesslike manner, begins: “As I told you on the phone, my cousin has decided to sell her home in Chatham and move to Toronto to be nearer her family.” He pats Miss Semple’s hand reassuringly. “She has a slight heart condition, and we’d prefer her to be in an assisted-living environment. These things are always difficult, of course, and when I heard from Mrs. Anna Preston’s son that she was here, I thought this would be perfect. She and my cousin have known each other since they were children. How nice it would be for both of them to have each other.”
The director is squirming in her seat, not a pretty sight. Visions of thousands of dollars flying out the front door assailing her, she haltingly confesses, “I’m so sorry. Mrs. Preston was a short-term stay, a private arrangement with her family. Let me assure you, she was very happy here, she made many friends among the residents. I’m sure, ah, Mrs. Emmet-Peel will find it a highly satisfactory home. We are very exclusive in our clientele, and it is highly probable that there may be others of her acquaintance staying here.” There’s a pause. “We have every amenity,” she adds, gathering a small pile of colourful brochures and bringing them over to Jeremy, ignoring Miss Semple. “Our excellent spa, our beauty salon—there’s even a small store for those little things that the residents enjoy, magazines and treats and such. Really, there’s no need to leave the building, everything is here for them.”
Jeremy stands, places the brochures back on her desk. “I’m sure it’s very nice.” He sounds dismissive. Mrs. Preston’s absence has settled the matter: he’s ready to leave.
The director plunges on. “I don’t know if it suits your schedule, but it might help you to come to a decision if you spent some time with us today. Explore our facilities, chat with our residents, perhaps join us for lunch? We’d be more than pleased to have you.”
As Jeremy hesitates, the director presses a button on her phone, and just like that, a woman, as thin as the director is fat, appears in the doorway.
“Nancy,” the director says, “these lovely people will be joining us for the afternoon. Would you show them around, introduce them to the residents, get them settled for lunch?” She turns to Jeremy. “Nancy is our recreation facilitator, one of our many highly qualified staff. After you’ve explored our home, met everybody, please come back to the office and we’ll continue our little chat.”
Nancy is a pale, bookish stick of a woman. It’s difficult to imagine her engaging in any sports, but recreation among the seniors may well be limited to card playing and remembering each other’s names. She leads us off to the common area, where a scattering of people, more women than men, are sitting around on expensive furniture. At first, I wonder if it’s visiting day at the home. There’s hardly a wrinkle to be seen, and everyone is dressed up in their Sunday best, not a housecoat or a pair of slippers among them. On closer examination, though, telltale signs of age reveal themselves. Spotted hands, shaky frames, sparse but well-coiffed hair on the women show the limits of plastic surgery and pampered living. Here and there, in starched white uniforms, relentlessly cheerful nurses or nurses’ aides, the only non-white faces in the place, distribute medications and take blood pressure and mild abuse from their patients.
I sneak a look at Miss Semple, taking comfort in the character lines she would never erase from her face, even if she could afford it. Both she and Jeremy have caused a mild stir among the inhabitants, an antidote to what must be the stultifying daily routine. A portly old fellow with a generous smile has taken charge of Miss Semple, leading her to a table of card players, while Jeremy is surrounded by a clutch of elderly women, all speaking at once. I’m left to my own devices, and try not to feel like a wallflower at the ball.
“Excuse me, do you have a moment?”
The frail but jaunty little man talking to me sports a full head of hair, a scarlet bow tie, and a brilliant white shirt.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I seem to have left my medication in my room. I’m a little unsteady on the old feet, would you mind escorting me up, my dear? I’d be very grateful.”
“It would be my pleasure,” I say, offering my arm. “I’m Doreen.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doreen. You can call me Sam. This way.”
No one is paying any attention to us; all eyes are on the two newcomers, who seem to be enjoying themselves. Sam’s grip on my arm is impressive as we shuffle forward to the elevator like Siamese twins. The doors open immediately, and with one arthritic finger, Sam stabs at the second-floor button. It’s a smooth ride and we exit onto a carpeted hallway. He leads me to door number three, searching with his free hand for his key, which he finds buried in his spotless handkerchief. It takes three shaky attempts before he finally aligns the key with the lock, and then we’re inside a small room, small but still larger than my own. It’s very tidy and compact, with a nice window overlooking the grounds. Without letting go of my arm, he leads me to his kitchenette and says, “Please, have a seat, I’ll make us some tea. You’re very kind to help an old man.”
“Thank you, tea would be nice.” I watch him fill a kettle, then reach for fine china cups. “Can I help?”
“No, no, I’ve got it. You came with those people, didn’t you? Do you work for them?”
I hate lying, but I don’t really have a choice here. “I work for Mrs. Emmet-Peel. She’s thinking of moving here. But I’m not sure she will now, if her friend has left.”
“Who was that?” He brings out sugar and cream, fusses with the teapot.
“Mrs. Preston.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Preston. Quite the woman! She had the apartment down the hall. Ruffled a few feathers here, though. Women outnumber us three or four to one, so the competition can be fierce. Not that she went out of her way to attract men, she didn’t need to. Nothing’s happened to her, has it?”
“I’m not sure.” I want to ask him more, but I don’t know how to go about it. He seems to have forgotten all about his pills and is oddly steadier on his feet than he was downstairs. He rummages in the cupboard, finds a tin of cookies, telling me to help myself.
“This Mrs. Preston, did she get a lot of visitors?” If Sam thinks this is a strange question, he keeps it to himself.
“Yes, well, most of us do. We’re wealthy, you see, and that’s a great incentive for relatives to remember us. I met her son, an unattractive fellow, once or twice, and come to think of it, there was a couple. Now that was odd. She looked like she was on drugs, sloppy, malnourished, and he—well, he was better dressed, but there was something about him, something dangerous. They were closeted up in Mrs. Preston’s room for what seemed like hours. Everyone was speculating on who they were
, why they were in with her. Skeletons in the old closet, yes? We’d been playing bridge, I remember, and the game was disrupted. She never came back down after meeting with them.”
He stands for a moment and moves his chair closer to me. “My hearing isn’t what it used to be,” he says.
Once he settles again, I ask, “Did she say anything about them?”
“Not to me, no. She was a very private person; I respected that. If she confided in anyone, it would have been Mr. Walters. They always had their heads together, chattering away. He left a week after she did, surprised us all. Can’t imagine where he went, he had no family to speak of, and he seemed happy enough here.”
“Walters. That’s a familiar name.”
“Jon Walters. A businessman, outlived his wife, his son was killed in a car crash over a decade ago. The son was gay, so there were no grandchildren. I think he was quite lonely before Mrs. Preston came, but still, no one knows why he left. More tea?”
“No, thank you, this is wonderful.” Since he’s so forthcoming, I’m wondering what else I can ask, when his knee bumps into mine under the table. “I’m sorry,” I say. He doesn’t move, so I push my chair back a little; he drags his a little closer. “Tell me, does she pay you much?”
“Who? Oh, ah, minimum wage.”
“I could use someone like you, young, friendly.” He’s stroking my arm, and I’m finally getting the message.
“Sam, you old dog, stop that.” I firmly remove his hand, and add, “My employer will be missing me.”
“Doreen, wait, I…”
I close the door on him and head to the elevator, not sure whether I should laugh or cry. Back in the common room, Miss Semple is still playing cards with three gentlemen, all of them chattering away, while Jeremy is being entertained by a group of female octogenarians, each of them riveted on his face. One of the uniformed staff opens up a set of doors to the dining hall, announcing the noon meal.
It is with some relief that we find ourselves back in the car. The carrot soup, baked chicken with mashed potatoes and dessert tart were all delicious, but it’s been an exhausting morning for my companions. Miss Semple is quiet, thoughtful, and Jeremy seems a little depressed. They are both near in age to the residents—perhaps it’s their own immediate futures they’re contemplating. Jeremy breaks the silence.
“It’s a very comfortable place, lovely surroundings, but still, there’s something very sad about it all.”
“I know,” says Miss Semple. “I felt it too. It probably sounds ridiculous, but I’m so glad I live where I do. I’m not lonely, or bored, not shut away from life.”
“Exactly. A gilded cage, but nonetheless a cage. They’ve given up, given in before needs must.” Jeremy steers us through the winding streets. No sound from the outside penetrates, not even the engine’s purr. “The women I spoke with were rather unkind about Mrs. Preston. She seems to have stirred up some ill feeling among them.”
Miss Semple nods. “Perhaps it’s because she was going back out into the world. The men were less judgmental. They seemed to miss her, though none of them were particularly close to her, except—”
“Except Jon Walters.” Miss Semple turns her head and smiles at me, and I see Jeremy raise his eyebrows in the rear-view mirror.
“Who’s Jon Walters?” Jeremy asks. When I fill him in, he thinks for a moment and then asks, “Did anyone mention visitors to either of you? The ladies were quite anxious to let me know Mrs. Preston had some scandal brewing, drugs perhaps, or alcohol abuse in the family. Otherwise, they said, she would never give a street person like that the time of day.” In a trilling voice drenched with malice, he mimics what he heard: “It was too embar-rassing for her, poor dear, she couldn’t face us after that, just packed up her bags and left.”
Miss Semple applauds his rendition, then, turning again, asks me where I’d disappeared to. I tell them about my conversation with Sam, leaving out the proposition, and we mull over what we’ve learned in companionable silence. Jeremy lets us off at the rooming house, once again stepping out of the car to open the passenger door for a blushing Miss Semple. “Thank you, ladies, for an interesting few hours. If you like, I’ll snoop around, see what can be learned, if anything, about this fellow Walters.” That sounds good to me. There can’t be that many wealthy people in the city, and Jeremy does move in those circles.
We watch him pull away, and as we head up the stairs to the house, I say in my blithest tone, “A Steinway in the common room might be just the thing to add a little culture to the place.”
“And afternoon tea, with those tiny sandwiches on silver platters.”
“Gerry would love that. And we really must do something about the grounds,” I say, gesturing at the weeds and potholes on the strip of lawn. “We may have to fire the gardening crew.” Giggling, we step inside.
As barren and grey as always, the common room feels better to me than the Rosedale Rest Home, especially with Diamond, Michael, and Gerry filling the seats. It takes them awhile to listen to the whole story of our outing. They can’t seem to get past what we said about the home. We could have been describing some exotic vacation spot, we have to field so many questions.
“There was a pool, right in the building?”
“And a piano? Was anyone playing?”
“Tell us about the lunch again, don’t leave anything out.”
“Leather chairs? What did they feel like?”
“An elevator, Christ, we could use one here.”
Finally, I put a stop to it. “None of that’s important, guys. We need to figure out what to do next. I think that mystery couple could be the key to understanding what has happened to Mrs. Preston. It seems a pretty safe bet that she met them, or at least met the woman, at the church program—there aren’t many other places she could have encountered people so far out of her social circle. I have an appointment to interview the head of the program, but I wonder if we should go one step further.”
“We’ll go undercover!” Michael leaps out of his seat with barely contained enthusiasm. “I’ll take Gerry. He looks the part, homeless and miserable, and we can snoop around a little, look for the mystery couple.”
Gerry’s mouth drops open. Going outside the building is terrifying enough, but out of the neighbourhood? His fear, as strong as it is, can’t stand up to his desire to be included.
“Don’t worry, Gerry, I’ll hold your hand,” says Michael.
“Bugger off,” Gerry says faintly as Diamond laughs. “I’ll do it, I guess.”
“’Course you will, never doubted it. We’ll be great, they’ll never see us comin’. I’ll check the schedule at the drop-in, see when they’re open.” The Out of the Cold programs rotate between participating churches and synagogues, each one responsible for one night out of seven.
Diamond muses, “I really ought to go along with you guys, but I have exams coming up.”
“We’ll have to be careful, subtle about how we ask questions,” I say. And if we spot this mis-matched couple, Michael and I will shadow them for a while, go where they go. Gerry, we’ll give you some money for a cab. If we need to split up, you can walk a few blocks from the church and flag one down. I’ve got to think about dressing for the part; Michael, you too.”
We all stand, ready to end the meeting. Gerry rises slowly, then asks, “What about me, what should I wear?”
We all look at Gerry, in his grey (originally white) T-shirt, splotched and splattered with a variety of foods, his voluminous jeans, thinned almost to transparency with age and use, unravelled and torn where they drag under his feet, his beard a nest of wildly curling hair. No one dares to speak for a long moment. It takes the diplomacy of Miss Semple to save the day.
“I’ll go through your clothes with you, Gerry. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, I’m struggling with the dresser drawer when Michael calls to me from the other side of my door. “You try,” I tell him, pointing as I l
et him in. “It’s stuck.” It takes him thirty seconds. He pulls so hard the drawer lands on the floor, dumping out the clothes where I can see them. “Thanks. What’s up?”
I’m kneeling down, sorting through T-shirts and sweaters, when he says, “I’d like you to meet my friend Janet.” Startled, I look around, but there’s nobody else here.
“Janet?”
“Yeah. I met her at the drop-in. You’ll like her, everybody does.”
I stop fussing with the pile of clothing and move over to my rocking chair, wondering what I’ve missed. Come to think of it, he has made more of an effort with himself lately—he’s dressing better, showering more, though that could be Pete’s influence.
“Why do you want me to meet her?”
Uncharacteristically hesitant, he wanders around the room before perching on the armrest of the couch. He clears his throat, pushes one hand through his hair. I lean forward for a better look. “You’ve had your hair cut!”
“Yeah, well, it was getting too long. About Janet. I know we’re busy and all, but she could really use our help.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s in this boarding home. She was sent there from the hospital. Not that she’s crazy or anything, not really, she just gets depressed sometimes. Like everyone. This house, it’s pretty bad, the owner is a real bitch. She and her son run the place. He’s an addict, he steals from the tenants. The guys in the house, they’re kinda like Gerry. He hits them sometimes, hard, if they don’t do what he says. They can’t complain, either, ’cause he can get them sent back to the hospital, he’ll tell their workers they’re losing it, hallucinating or paranoid or psycho or something, and they’ll believe him ’cause he’s supposed to be normal. He hasn’t touched Janet yet, but some of the other ladies there, it’s a different story. She’s really upset, you know.”