Returning Home

by Mary Carmen

  She gave me the three telephone numbers, and Muzz and I walked down the block to his Cadillac.

  Muzz said, “Ex-wives are bitches. You don’t have to tell me about it.”

  Of course Maude was not an ex-wife.

  Finding Mother

  Muzz and I went back to the hotel. The next day I called Ms. Turner at the bank and asked for the name of a private detective.

  Just before noon on Monday, Muzz and I entered the office of the Mann Detective Agency in downtown Wilkinsburg.

  “Probably good to keep that piece out of the way,” I suggested. “At first, anyway.”

  Muzz moved his shoulder holster so the firearm was more or less out of sight. We had no appointment, but the receptionist welcomed us and asked us to wait for “our Ms. Hawkins.”

  Almost immediately a short, muscular woman of about thirty years came to shake my hand. I motioned to Muzz to remain in the reception area, and he picked up a panel and started to read the Pittsburgh Press.

  I came immediately to the point.

  “I want you to find out what happened to my parents. I have not seen them since I was a child, and I am seventy now,” I began.

  “You certainly don’t look seventy. Maybe forty-five.”

  “I did not get much sun where I was living. My skin did not age,” I explained.

  Ms. Hawkings asked me for a great many details. Many things I had no answer for, but I did know my parents were referenced by Social Security Number in my grandparents’ wills, which had been filed for probate.

  Within an hour I had my answers. My father had died in 2098, and my mother was living in New Kensington. Ms. Hawkins wrote down the address and handed it to me. She also handed me an invoice.

  Visiting Mother’s Home

  Muzz and I had a quick lunch at a hotel dining room in Wilkinsburg and then drove to the address the investigator had given me. The trip took about twenty minutes, but the streets were clear of snow and the air was invigorating.

  We found the building quickly. It was old and it was large, resembling a dormitory at a college that has lost the endowment to an investment advisor with a shady stock market scheme.

  We both went into the small, grimy lobby, and I asked the receptionist for my mother, using the name the detective had given me, a surname I had never heard before in connection with her.

  “You a cop?” she asked.

  “No, I am a relative,” I responded.

  “All relatives know this ain’t visiting day. You must be a cop. Either that or one of them process servers,” she insisted.

  “When is visiting day?”

  “For the assisted elderly, Wednesdays and Saturdays. For the private pay, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. You will need to come back Wednesday,” she said.

  “Is the manager available?” I asked, certainly not raising my voice to the level of the receptionist.

  “I can give you an appointment at 4:00 p.m. this afternoon, for only half an hour. If you want to register a complaint, I can give you the form to file with the county. No need to see her, then.”

  I was distressed it was so easy to file a complaint and the receptionist was so familiar with the procedure.

  “We will come back at 4:00 p.m.,” I said.

  “I’ll need your name. Are you responsible for this bill? It’s over ninety days past due.”

  I gave the receptionist my name and looked at the bill. It was for about four times the amount Muzz and I had just spent for lunch, but it certainly appeared to be very overdue. A few tiny payments had been made right after the first of the month for the prior several months, but these had been exceeded by the accumulated service charges. I reached into my pocket and found enough cash to pay the bill. I also gave the receptionist additional money to apply as a credit. I waited for the receipt.

  Muzz and I drove around the neighborhood, looking at the rundown frame houses and the few corner stores.

  Children played in the street, and they were not quick to move to allow our car to pass. Some gawked at it and others just banged on the side windows.

  “This was the town where my parents worked when I was born,” I told Muzz. “It was quite prosperous in those days, but it looks very poor now.”

  “This part of it, anyway,” he agreed. “Is your old home near here?”

  “No, that was the house we visited yesterday,” I said.

  Soon we came to a pocket of newer houses with fresh paint and manicured lawns.

  “Let’s take down the addresses of some of these houses that are for sale,” I said.

  We returned to the dormitory just before 4:00 p.m. and were shown into a crowded waiting room.

  “She’s running late,” the receptionist said. “I’ll only be able to give you fifteen minutes.”

  At 6:15 p.m. I was shown into a private office with disreputable furniture and a very soiled and worn carpet.

  “Hello, Mr. Waltrop, I’m Janet Lowe, the manager. Won’t you have a seat? Sorry to have kept you waiting,” the middle-aged woman said. She looked very kind, but her manner of dress gave me the idea she had not bought new clothes in ten years.

  “I am the son of Mrs. Burton, one of your residents,” I began.

  “Yes, I understand. Thanks for paying that bill. It means a lot to us,” Ms. Lowe said, leaning over to smile into my face.

  “What is my mother’s situation? I have been working on another planet for over thirty years, and we were estranged when I left.”

  “So sad,” she said. “Of course, Mrs. Burton is not in the best of health, but she seems happy here. She has one special friend, and we have put them next to each other.”

  Ms. Lowe explained that each resident had a different financial situation. For those who were able to pay, the accommodations ranged from a private room to a three-room suite. For those who depended on financial assistance from the county, the accommodations were limited to a six-bed dormitory. My mother was in a dormitory.

  “Do you have private rooms available?” I asked.

  “Heavens, yes,” Ms. Lowe exclaimed. “People who can afford to pay for them usually can afford to live in a better neighborhood. We have very little call for the private rooms and the suites.”

  “Do you have a price schedule I can review? Can you show me vacant rooms?” I asked.

  Ms. Lowe hesitated. “You are aware, I am sure, that Mrs. Burton does not really remember much about her life, and she does not worry much about her surroundings. I am not sure upgrading her accommodations would be a good value for you.”

  “It would make me feel better about my own life and my own responsibilities,” I answered.

  She handed me a list showing the rooms and the rates, including various options for meals. “Well, that’s another subject, to be sure. Of course, we can make an appointment to view the suites. Would tomorrow be too soon?”

  Meeting Mother

  The next day, just after breakfast, Muzz and I drove back to Mother’s dormitory. Ms. Lowe met us in the lobby at the time we had scheduled.

  “This is my friend Muzz,” I told Ms. Lowe. Certainly I was happy to have another set of eyes to help me evaluate the options, and Muzz was, if nothing else, a very practical person.

  “Charlene is bringing your mother,” Ms. Lowe said. “They should be here any minute.”

  The receptionist, sitting in her usual place, looked suspicious. She yelled toward the larger hallway, “Charlene, get your ass in here with Mrs. Burton.”

  A minute or two later a sturdy young woman with dirty hair appeared next to an old woman using an automatic walking machine. The machine traveled a little slower than the young woman could walk, but she stayed with the old woman for the length of the hallway.

  Ms. Lowe said, “Charlene, I’ll take over from here,” and she helped the old woman sit down on the walking machine’s folding seat.

  I was stunned. This woman was the very picture of my late grandmother, gone seedy. She wore a lavender one-piece suit of a fuzzy fabric, a
nd she appeared to have a week’s worth of makeup on her face. Her hair was clean but not well styled.

  “Mrs. Burton, this is your son, come to visit,” Ms. Lowe said.

  My mother did not question this statement. “Looks like my first husband. What’s your name, honey?” she asked.

  “My name is Tony, Mother. Anthony, really.”

  “I have my own bed here,” Mother said. “I have my own closet, too. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Tony. Ms. Lowe is going to show us other rooms, ones you might like.”

  “Oh, no, not those long rooms with all the men and women together,” she said. “I hope not those rooms.”

  Ms. Lowe jumped into the conversation quickly. “She’s thinking about after we got flooded out and we had to double up for two weeks on the second floor. It was just terrible, I can tell you. Some people were sleeping in the halls.”

  “No, Mother, we are going to see suites and private rooms,” I said. “Perhaps you will see something you like.”

  “How about three squares? That’s what I would like to see,” Mother replied.

  Mr. Lowe had to quickly talk again. “Some residents are on the three-meal-per-day plan and others are on the two-meals-and-a-snack plan. That’s what she is thinking of, I suspect.”

  “And my mother’s plan? What is that?” I asked.

  “Yes, all assisted are on the plan with two meals and a snack. Nobody has ever lost any weight. What they don’t get in the evening they get the next morning,” Ms. Lowe explained.

  It was clear my mother had been going to bed hungry.

  We walked the length of the middle hallway and stopped in front of a door that looked just like all the other doors. Ms. Lowe unlocked it and we went in. The morning sun was coming through the window, but the place smelled musty.

  “I told Charlene to air these rooms out, but she must have got behind,” Ms. Lowe said.

  I turned on all the lights and saw a single bed, a dresser, and a chair in front of a small table. The bathroom was small and contained only a shower. The closet would hold only a dozen hangers.

  “Yes, this is our single room,” Ms. Lowe said.

  “Mrs. Holly used to have a single room, before her son died,” my mother said.

  “Mrs. Holly is Mrs. Burton’s special friend,” Ms. Lowe explained again. “I put them next to each other.”

  We went on to the deluxe room, essentially a blown-up single room with an extra chair and a larger bed. We finally came to the suite, and I expected to see something grand. Instead, it was two single rooms with two shower baths, with communicating doors.

  “Would you like to move to this suite?” I asked my mother.

  “What’s your name, honey?” she asked.

  Ms. Lowe quickly said, “We would bring in sitting room furniture and take out this extra bed, if you want this suite. No need for two beds, is there?”

  “How about three communicating rooms?” I asked.

  Ms. Lowe was ready. “Actually, these rooms each communicate with the room on the other side. I have papered up over the doors, but we could open one of them.”

  So I agreed to take three rooms, with the center room furnished as a sitting room. My mother would move to one and Mrs. Holly would move to the other. Each of them would be promoted to the “three squares” plan.

  Ms. Lowe also agreed to give me a price for adding a special staff member to attend to my mother and Mrs. Holly during the day.

  Muzz was not happy. He felt the place was terribly depressing, and the attendants were impolite to the residents. I agreed it would be on a trial basis, and I suggested he and I should find a decorator to brighten up the three-room suite.

  I gave Ms. Lowe one of my checks as a deposit on the rooms and the board, expecting that deposit to last for at least three months. I told her any arrangements for Mrs. Holly were to be in effect only for as long as my mother lived and found Mrs. Holly an agreeable companion.

  Our small group went to the lobby to take our leave. As Muzz and I went out the door, I heard my mother ask Ms. Lowe who those young men had been.

  Keeping Busy in New Kensington

  The next day I again called Ms. Turner at the bank. This time I was told Ms. Turner had been transferred to another branch, but I could speak to the new manager, Mr. Robertson.

  Mr. Robertson was pleasant but he said he had no idea about commercial janitorial services. When I asked why he had replaced the prior manager, he told me the recent increase in deposits at my branch required a senior vice president at that branch, not an assistant vice president.

  I told him I wanted to transfer my account to the branch where Ms. Turner had gone, and he assured me I could come into the branch at any time and sign the paperwork.

  It seemed certain to me Ms. Turner had been the victim of my own enormous deposit. She had told me my retirement account was nearly ready to escheat, and the movement of that account from inactive to active must have caught the eye of the bank’s watchdogs.

  Of course, I was outraged. I called the bank’s main office and asked to talk to the president of the bank. After one delay after another, I finally was turned over to an executive vice president, a man who was clearly anxious to get rid of me.

  When I gave the executive vice president my account number, his tone changed. I was given his assurance Ms. Turner would be back at my branch within a week. Meanwhile, I could reach her at a number he gave me, at another branch.

  Ms. Turner sounded happy to hear from me, and she also sounded relieved to know she would be returning to our branch. She quickly answered my questions about janitorial services and the best interior decorator in Pittsburgh.

  Don’t allow presumptuous behavior to deter you from what you want. Your opinion counts to your bank and to others who enjoy your patronage. God has had enough experience as a patsy, and It does not need more.

  Muzz and I drove to the offices of the janitorial service and talked to the manager about an estimate for a complete cleaning of the public rooms and several private rooms at Mother’s home. I called Ms. Lowe and told her to expect the janitorial service’s representative that day.

  She asked, “We can arrange for all this for you, don’t you know? We have people coming into the place every other night to clean.”

  I told her, quite bluntly, that the standards of her cleaners were not up to mine and I was not content to allow my mother to continue to live in that environment. I told her that either our people cleaned or my mother would move.

  Ms. Lowe was speechless. All the complaints she had heard through the years had been about the poor food, the surly staff, and the high prices. She had no handy retort about a complaint about her pitiful attempt at housekeeping.

  Working with the Interior Decorator

  Muzz and I next drove to the small storefront of the interior decorator, Mr. Eyres. The door was locked, but a neat notice near the bottom of the glass invited us to ring the bell.

  Mr. Eyres was a tall, thin man of about forty-five. He was beautifully dressed in a dark blue silk jumpsuit and a cream smock. He wore a large grey and purple cravat.

  “Yes? I have a client coming at eleven, and I can’t keep her waiting,” he began.

  I explained our reference from Ms. Turner, and I told him we wanted to discuss the decoration of three rooms in New Kensington.

  “Oh, I can’t think you would want to put any money into that place,” he said, waving away the entire city. “Never get it out, never, never.”

  Mr. Eyres’s client rang the bell, and he took my number at the hotel and agreed to call when he was free. I told him we would wait in our car until we saw the client leave and then we would be back to further discuss our requirements.

  Mr. Eyres sighed. “Pushy, pushy, pushy. Oh, all right, it doesn’t cost anything to talk. I’ll give you half an hour.”

  Back in the car, Muzz was jumpy. He finally said, “That fellow doesn’t understand New Kensington. He’ll want to design Buckingham Palace
and you’ll need Motel 6. Maybe Ms. Turner has a name of another decorator.”

  I agreed Mr. Eyres’s showroom did not look like the style of anything at Mother’s home.

  “I have some pictures from a suite on a spacecraft I want to show him. I want those rooms to look like the suite. When Mother no longer has a use for the furniture, I will take it to my place.”

  Muzz was unmoved. “You don’t have a place yet, and you can’t know this stuff will fit in. Meanwhile, this guy will charge an arm and a leg just to take measurements out there. He will probably want to hold his nose while he is inside that place, and that will cost you extra.”