by Mary Daheim
“Right.” Renie didn’t look particularly moved.
“Say,” Judith said, “how are you going to get the fried chicken past the front desk this time? You didn’t give any special instructions.”
Renie slapped at her forehead. “Shoot! I forgot.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll go meet them at the door.”
“You can’t walk that far,” Judith pointed out. “Even if you could, you can’t carry that great big order with only one hand.”
Resting her chin on her left fist, Renie thought hard. “I know,” she said, brightening, “I’ll ask Tubby Turnbull to meet the delivery guy and bring it up to us.”
Judith cocked her head at Renie. “You’re going to ask the general manager of a major league baseball team to deliver a box of fried chicken? Are you nuts?”
“No,” Renie replied. “Wouldn’t you like to talk to Tubby? Not that he’ll say much. He’s Mr. Ambiguous.”
“Well…I suppose I can’t miss the opportunity,” Judith said. “I’ll time his visit with Addison. Sister Jacqueline told Tubby to keep it to ten minutes.”
“That’ll be twenty,” Renie put in. “Tubby talks and moves in low gear. That’s why he never makes a trade deadline.”
“Okay,” Judith agreed. “I figure a little over five minutes have gone by.”
Renie’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver and smiled. “Hi, Bill. You’re using the phone. What a nice surprise…Yes, I realize you can’t come up tonight. It’s snowing hard here, too…What?” Renie’s face froze. “You’re kidding! Did they call the cops?…Joe reported it?…Good…Yes, sure…Now don’t get too riled…Okay, will…Love you.”
Renie hung up and stared at Judith. “Joe took Bill to pick up Cammy at the Toyota dealership,” Renie said, her face pale. “Cammy wasn’t there. She’d been stolen.”
EIGHT
“HOW,” JUDITH DEMANDED, “does a car that’s in for service at a dealership get stolen?”
“That’s what Bill and I would like to know,” Renie said angrily. “We’re a one-car family. We’re stuck.”
“Your kids each have a car,” Judith pointed out, hoping to assuage her cousin’s distress.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ll lend one to us,” Renie said, still fuming.
“Nobody’s going out in this snow anyway,” Judith said, eyeing the young orderly, who had advanced into their room to mop the floor for the second time that day.
“That’s not the point,” Renie snapped. “Poor Cammy’s out there in this blizzard, shivering and sobbing. Her little engine is probably freezing up.”
“Don’t you and Bill have antifreeze in the radiator?” Judith inquired.
“What?” Renie scowled. “Of course. It comes with the car these days. I meant metaphorically speaking.”
“So Joe reported the car as stolen?” Judith asked, putting the dinner tray aside and smiling at the orderly as he made his exit.
Looking glum, Renie nodded. “Stolen cars won’t be a high priority for a while. I’m sure there are too many accidents out there right now.”
“Cheer up, coz,” Judith said, still not surrendering in her efforts to make Renie feel better. “Nobody’s taking your car anywhere in this storm. I guess I’ll bite the bullet and call Mother.”
“Go for it,” Renie muttered, sinking back onto the pillows.
Predictably, Gertrude answered on the eleventh ring. “Well,” she said in a deceptively affable voice, “so you pulled through. How come you didn’t let your poor old mother know before this?”
“Joe told you I was okay,” Judith replied. “I’m sure that Carl and Arlene mentioned it, too. Besides, you hate to talk on the phone.”
Gertrude bridled. “I do? Says who?”
“Mother, you’ve always hated to talk on the phone,” Judith said patiently. “How are you getting along?”
“Good,” Gertrude said. “I just had supper. Liver and onions. Arlene makes the best. And she gets it to me on time, straight-up five o’clock. That’s when supper ought to be served. Who cares about late meals and being fashionable?”
Judith glanced at her watch. It was a few minutes after six. Usually, Judith wasn’t able to deliver her mother’s dinner until almost six-thirty. The timing had nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do with Judith’s busy late afternoons, greeting guests and preparing for the social hour. “Arlene’s very thoughtful,” Judith allowed. “What are you doing right now?”
“Making a family tree,” Gertrude said. “Mike called. He wants to see who all’s hanging on it for Little Stinkers Preschool or whatever it’s called. Dumb. Why can’t kids stay home and play like they used to?”
“I don’t entirely disagree with you,” Judith said. “Today’s parents seem in such a rush to get them to grow up. Maybe that’s why when they hit twenty, they suddenly stop maturing until they’re almost middle-aged. They’re making up for all the lost years when they should have been carefree kids.”
“Well.” Gertrude chortled. “Maybe I haven’t raised such a nitwit after all. When was the last time you agreed with me on anything?”
“Come on, Mother,” Judith said. “I agree with you on many things. Um…Who are you putting on the family tree?”
“Family,” Gertrude retorted. “Our side. The Grovers and the Hoffmans. You can do Lunkhead’s.”
Judith wasn’t sure which husband Gertrude was referring to. Her mother referred to both Dan and Joe as Lunkhead. In fact, Judith had never been sure if Gertrude knew—or recognized—that Mike wasn’t Dan’s son. Over thirty years ago, a baby conceived out of wedlock was a shameful thing. At least by Gertrude’s strict, old-fashioned standards. While Judith believed that her mother knew, deep down, she’d been in denial for the past three decades.
“That’s good,” Judith said, aware that her mother’s memory, like those of most elderly people, recalled more from the distant past than the immediate present. “I mean, you can remember all those relatives who were dead before my time.”
“You didn’t miss much with some of ’em,” Gertrude declared. “Take Uncle Kaspar. He thought he was a pencil. My grandmother was always pretending to sharpen him. The funny thing was, his head did come to a point.”
“I never heard you mention him before,” Judith said.
“Maybe I forgot till now,” Gertrude said. “Then there was my father’s cousin, Lotte. Big woman. Lotta Lotte, my papa used to say. She sat on his favorite mare once and the horse fell down, broke a leg.”
“Did they have to shoot her?” Judith asked.
“Yep,” Gertrude replied. “The mare was fine, though. Fixed her up good as new.”
“Mother,” Judith said severely, “you’re not telling me they shot Lotte!”
Gertrude was chuckling. “Why not? It was the old country. They did a lot of queer things over there. Old-fashioned stuff, like wars and bombs and all that other goofy stuff.”
“Mother,” Judith said stiffly, “I don’t want you making up information. It’s important to Mike and Kristin. In fact, I’d like to know more about our family tree myself.”
“Wait till I get to your father’s side,” Gertrude said in a low, insinuating voice. “Bet you never knew about Uncle Percy.”
“Before my time?” Judith ventured.
“A bit.”
“What about him?”
There was a long pause. “I forget. It’ll come to me. Hey, toots, got to go. Arlene’s here to let me teach her how to play gin rummy.”
Gertrude hung up.
Judith looked at Renie, who was guzzling more Pepsi. “Did you ever hear of Uncle Percy on our fathers’ side of the family?”
“No,” Renie replied. “Did your mother invent him?”
“I think she’s making up most of my side,” Judith said. “It’s not like she doesn’t remember from way back. It’s five minutes ago that eludes her. Have you made up your mind how to get dinner from the front door to our room?”
“I told you,” Renie
replied with a scowl, “I’m asking Tubby Turnbull. He should be about ready to leave. I’ll go look.”
Tubby, in fact, was sauntering out of Addison Kirby’s room. Renie put out a stocking-covered foot, which caught him above the ankle. “Oof!” Tubby exclaimed in mild surprise. “Sorry. Did I step on you?”
“Mr. Turnbull,” Renie said, turning on what meager charm she could manage, “I’m upset. Who are you getting to replace Joaquin Somosa?”
“Well…,” Tubby drawled, rubbing his prominent chin, “that’s a darned good question. Who do you think we should get?”
“Me?” Renie pointed to herself. “I’m just a fan, a mere woman at that. How should I know?”
“Well…” Tubby scratched at the elaborate comb-over that covered his bald spot. “Sometimes player trade ideas come from the darnedest places. I got the inspiration for our closer, Ho Boy Pak, from a fortune cookie.”
“Really,” Renie breathed. “I’m not surprised. He sort of pitches like chop suey.”
“Yes,” Tubby agreed, “he can be kind of erratic. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
Renie put out her good left hand. “Oh, please, Mr. Turnbull, could you step in for a minute and meet my cousin? She’s a huge Seafarers fan.”
Renie made the introductions. “What a pleasure,” Judith enthused, studying Tubby more closely. He was definitely tubby, soft, and pliable. For a moment, Tubby seemed to be deciding whether to sit or stand. He eyed the visitors’ chairs, the beds, even the commode. At last, he stayed put. Judith knew of his reputation for indecisiveness, and noticed that the socks under his galoshes and shoes didn’t match. Judith wondered if he’d simply not been able to make up his mind when he got up that morning. “I’ve been rooting for the Seafarers ever since the franchise got here,” she said as Tubby slowly released her hand. “I’m a big sports nut. Wasn’t that terrible about Bob Randall?”
Tubby nodded. “Really terrible. Just like Juan. And that actress, Addison Kirby’s wife. It makes you stop and think.” Tubby stopped, apparently to think.
“It was nice of you to call on Mr. Kirby,” Judith said. “My cousin here actually saw him get hit by that car.”
“Really?” Tubby turned to gaze at Renie. “That’s terrible, too. I guess you can’t blame Addison for being kind of upset.”
“That’s true,” Judith responded. “You know, we spoke to him before the accident. He told us he was on his way to meet you. I’ll bet you wondered what happened to him when he didn’t show up.”
Tubby rubbed at the back of his head. “Did I? Yes, sure I did. I wondered a lot. Then the hospital called and told me what happened and that I’d better mosey on over to see him. So here I am.”
“How thoughtful,” Judith said. “We gathered that Addison had something very important on his mind. I hope he was feeling strong enough to tell you about it. It’s so hard to be laid up and not able to get things off your chest.”
“That’s terrible,” Tubby agreed, “being laid up like that and not able to…Yes, he got it off his chest. But I don’t see how I can help him. I know very little.”
Behind Tubby, Renie nodded emphatically.
“You know very little about…what?” Judith prompted.
“About…” Tubby scratched his triple chins. “About how Joaquin and Mrs. Kirby and Ramblin’ Randall died so all of a sudden. But I told him—Addison—that it seems like a real coincidence to me.”
“It does?” Judith said, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Well…sure,” Tubby replied, holding out his chunky hands in a helpless gesture. “What else? I mean, I know it wasn’t drugs with Joaquin. He never did drugs. He believed his body was like a…temple. Or something. And I suppose I have to believe what Addison said about his wife not taking drugs, either. He ought to know. But I can’t say about Bob Randall. I hardly knew him, except to see him at sports banquets and such. I figure this drug talk is a smoke screen. The doctors just plain screwed up. It happens.”
“Occasionally,” Judith allowed, wondering if it was worthwhile to continue the conversation with Tubby Turnbull.
Renie apparently thought not. She put a hand on Tubby’s elbow and steered him toward the door. “Thanks for coming by, Mr. Turnbull. You’ve given us a real…thrill. Good luck when spring training rolls around.”
“What?” Tubby looked startled. “Oh—spring training. Yes, it’s coming. At the end of winter, right? Bye now.” He trundled off into the hallway, where he stopped, apparently undecided about which way to go.
“You didn’t ask him to meet the dinner wagon,” Judith remarked. “How come?”
“Because Tubby couldn’t handle it,” Renie said. “It’ll take him half an hour to find the exit, and then he’ll have to figure out if he’s going in or going out. I’ve got a better idea. Hey,” Renie called from the doorway, “Maya?”
Judith heard a far-off voice tell Renie that Maya wasn’t on duty. Renie leaned back into the room. “No Maya tonight. But I’m not without resources. Are you in there, Mr. Mummy?”
With great effort, Judith scooted farther down in the bed. She was just able to make out Mr. Mummy, who apparently had come out of his room and crossed the hall to Renie.
“How,” Renie murmured, “do you feel about fried chicken, Mr. Mummy?”
Mr. Mummy’s feelings about fried chicken, especially Bubba’s, were extremely positive. He was in a walking cast, and could get down to the main entrance with no trouble.
“Can I fit the Bubba’s box into my plastic carryall?” he inquired, his cheeks pink with excitement.
“Yes, you can,” Renie said, handing over the check she’d already written. “Just be sure no one sees you make the transfer.”
Mr. Mummy beamed at Renie. “It’s like a spy story, isn’t it? You know, where one man sits on the park bench and the other one comes along with a folded newspaper and he leaves it on the seat and the first man—”
“My, yes,” Renie interrupted. “You’d better go, Mr. Mummy. The delivery may be arriving any minute.”
Judith saw Mr. Mummy scoot off down the hall, the leg in the walking cast at an angle, and his sacklike hospital gown waving behind him like a rag tied to a large load on a pickup truck.
“He’s sweet,” Judith said as Renie headed back to bed. “I’ll bet he has a crush on you.”
“Probably,” Renie said, a trifle glum. “Why couldn’t Sean Connery have fallen off a ladder instead of Mr. Mummy?”
Heather Chinn appeared, taking more vital signs. “When will Maya be back?” Judith asked.
Heather concentrated on Judith’s pulse. “Maya’s not with us anymore.”
Judith lurched forward, disrupting Heather’s pulse count. “Literally? Figuratively?”
“Both, I suppose,” Heather replied, slightly irritated. “Yesterday was her last day working for Good Cheer.”
“Oh.” The thermometer cut off further comment from Judith.
“Seeking new opportunities, huh?” Renie remarked.
“Yes,” Heather said, still intent upon her tasks.
“What was in the autopsy report on Bob Randall?” Renie inquired.
“I don’t know,” Heather replied.
“Surely not suicide,” Renie said.
“I don’t know,” Heather repeated, her pretty face set in stone.
“Yes, you do,” Renie asserted. “Bob Randall was one of your patients. You would be informed if he’d taken his own life. Don’t you think it would be prudent for you to tell other patients on this floor what really happened? Cover-ups never work, and then you’re left with serious egg on your face.”
Heather removed the thermometer from Judith’s mouth and glared at Renie. “We’ve been told not to discuss Mr. Randall’s death. The orders have come down from on high.”
“Dr. Van Boeck or Queen Blanche?” Renie retorted.
“Dr. Van Boeck, of course,” Heather said stiffly. “He’s in charge here.”
“That’s not the impression I got thi
s afternoon,” Renie said. “Now let me think—Good Cheer is kind of conservative, old-fashioned. Which is good. I’m still here, and in any other hospital in the city, I’d have been sent home this morning, right? Keeping me longer may not suit the bottom line. So maybe the Van Boecks aren’t merely fighting to keep Good Cheer’s reputation spotless, but for the hospital’s very survival. How am I doing, Nurse Chinn?”
Heather yanked the blood pressure cuff off Judith’s arm with more force than was necessary. “All hospitals are fighting to stay alive,” the nurse said grimly. “Over the years, the Sisters of Good Cheer have wisely managed this institution. They’ve refused to remodel for the sake of appearances, the plant budget is always used for necessities and equipment, and we rely on a heavy corps of volunteers.”
Robbie the Robot could be heard beeping along the hallway. “Hi, I’m Robbie…” He moved on.
“Nonpaid personnel like him?” Renie said, pointing toward the door.
“In a way, yes,” Heather replied. “He delivers things. He’s programmed to take charts and other paperwork to various departments. Robbie can even use the elevators.”
“Good,” said Renie. “I’d hate to see him clank down a flight of stairs. You’d probably have to put his parts in a dustpan.”
Somewhat warily, Heather moved over to Renie’s bed, holding the thermometer as if it were a weapon. “So what are the problems Good Cheer is facing?” Judith asked.
“The same as every hospital,” Heather replied, showing some enthusiasm for shoving the thermometer in Renie’s mouth. “The merger of medical specialties helped everyone. Hospitals spent far too much money on duplicating equipment. It wasn’t necessary or feasible, especially in a city like this, where so many of the hospitals are within a five-mile radius.”
“The decline in religious orders must have hurt,” Judith noted. “It certainly made a difference in the schools when they had to hire lay teachers instead of nuns.”
“That’s true,” Heather said, then paused to take Renie’s pulse. “We only have five nuns on staff at Good Cheer. There used to be dozens.”
“So salaries have gone up dramatically,” Judith mused. “Malpractice insurance, too, I suppose.”