by Mary Logue
“Mom, a few of your photographs, some books, your afghan . . .”
She kept shaking her head through his list of possibilities.
“I know—I’ll bring some of your violets.”
“Don’t bring the violets.”
“Mom.”
“Don’t bring the violets here.” She sounded as if she was going to cry, which unnerved him more than anything else he had witnessed. His mother never cried.
“I won’t bring the violets.”
“Rich, I don’t want to be like this.”
He looked down at his mother, lying crookedly in the hospital bed, her bad arm in a sling. She reminded him of a poorly stuffed animal in an old diorama. He could even imagine the signage: SUPINE EIGHTY-YEAR-OLD FEMALE HOMO SAPIENS. NO LONGER QUITE RIGHT IN HER BODY. “I understand.”
“Can you help me? Can you help me get out of here?”
He bent down close to her. Communicating with her now was like talking to a frightened animal. You had to get close enough to her so she could feel your presence, and then talk soft and low. He took her limp left hand and gently rocked it. “I can. But let’s give it a few weeks. See how you do. I have great faith in you. I think you’re stronger than you even know.”
Beatrice looked around the empty room. “This isn’t where I want to die.”
Beatrice slept so hard that she felt she had dropped off the face of the earth and fallen—splat—on the sky. When she dragged her eyelids up, she could see that she was in a strange room and that there was light shining in from a doorway. She needed to know where she was. She found her glasses on a table by her bed and, with difficulty, set them on her nose.
A clock next to the bed indicated eight o’clock, but Beatrice wasn’t sure if that meant morning or evening. When she looked out the window, she saw it was dark, so it must be evening.
She knew she was not in the hospital. It was too quiet for the hospital. But it wasn’t her apartment; she knew that for sure.
Then she remembered where Rich had taken her. A nursing home. She couldn’t believe she had ended up at one. She had hoped to die in her own bed one night without even knowing, to move gently from sleeping to nonexistence or whatever else came after. It was enough to make a person cry to find herself suddenly in a nursing home.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to get out of bed by herself. If she could just get someone to help her . . . Through the crack in the door, she could see a woman coming down the hall. If she could get her attention . . .
Beatrice made a small noise, like a yelp. After she made it she felt ashamed. What kind of business was that, making yelping noises in the middle of the night? The woman stopped and looked toward her door but evidently couldn’t see into the darkness of the room.
But Beatrice could see the woman. She didn’t look like a nurse; she wasn’t wearing a nurse’s uniform. She had blond frizzy hair and was rather stout. She was carrying a large purse. She went into the room across the hallway from Beatrice’s room.
Beatrice put her head back on her pillow. She was so tired. Even holding her head up made her tired. Even keeping her eyes open.
She remembered who was in the room across from her. She had met him in the hall when the nurse pushed her to dinner. His name was Walter. He made her situation look positive. He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t walk. He had a tube in his stomach. His head bobbled on the end of his neck like a flower blowing in the breeze.
She wondered why the woman was visiting him so late. She wondered why she was staying in this strange hotel. But these thoughts were like swallows flitting, skimming over the surface of her brain, picking up insects and flying on. They didn’t rest until they slept. She slept.
So many people were visiting Walter these days. They would stand at the edges of the room and nod and wave to him. They didn’t say anything. He recognized a few of them: his third-grade schoolteacher, Miss Lillehelm; Mr. Ramstead, the postman; Howard Levy, who had fought next to him in World War II. They came and went like ripples on a pond. They comforted him with their presence.
He was staring at them when Patty Jo came into the room. He could tell it was her even though she didn’t turn the light on because she had a heavy walk and she swore when she bumped into a chair.
He had tried to please Patty Jo, but he didn’t think she was very happy with him. She could be mean if she didn’t get what she wanted. He had learned not to oppose her on anything. It just wasn’t worth it. He went along with everything she wanted after what had happened to Florence.
She sat down next to the bed and reached out and took his hand.
Walter was surprised because she didn’t tend to touch him much. He wished she would touch him more. He felt so adrift.
Patty Jo was holding his wrist like the nurses did. She was taking his pulse. He looked at her. She didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t bother to try to say anything to her. It was too frustrating.
He was lucky to have Patty Jo. She had promised to take care of everything for him. He was worried about the farm, but he was sure she would never sell it. She knew he wanted to go back there soon. Margaret would tell her.
He wondered where Margaret was. She hadn’t come to see him in a few days. He tried to ask about Margaret. The noise he made sounded like a cow mooing.
Patty Jo put down his hand. “You know I can’t understand you. I just want you to know I’m doing this because of Margaret. If she’d let things be the way I planned, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
The people lining the walls were waving again. He blinked his eyes at them. It was his code to tell them he could see them.
Patty Jo sat down next to him and leaned in close. “It’s time to go to sleep, Walter.”
He could fall asleep so easily these days. All he had to do was close his eyes. But then he couldn’t see Patty Jo or his friends.
He blinked his eyes at her.
“Don’t look at me like that, Walter. I’m doing this for your own good.”
Patty Jo had always reminded him of his mother. That had been a favorite phrase of his mother’s: “doing this for your own good.” It usually meant something bad was going to happen.
CHAPTER 9
The Moravian Church was tucked down a winding road on the bluff top. Claire had always loved spotting the belfry of the small white church in the distance, but she had never seen the interior. As she turned onto the dirt road that led to the church, she scared up a flock of turkeys. The birds looked prehistoric to her, walking in their awkward, stilted manner. After they scattered off the road, she parked about a block from the church. The parking lot was full, and cars and pickup trucks lined the road.
When Claire walked into the church, she saw that it had raked seating with built-in stadium chairs that reminded her of an old movie theater. All the chairs were filled—there looked to be about one hundred of them—and people were lined up along the walls. She found Rich standing near the entrance waiting for her.
“What a funny old church,” she whispered in his ear when he dipped his head.
“It won’t be here much longer,” he whispered back.
She looked questioningly at him.
“The congregation has dwindled to the point that they can’t keep it going. They’re about to desanctify the church.”
“How sad,” Claire murmured.
She looked over the people in the seats—most of them were over sixty years old—and recognized many.
Down front she could see three people sitting in the first row: Margaret and Mark Underwood, and Patty Jo Tilde. Margaret was dressed in a black dress, Mark had on a dark suit, and Patty Jo was wearing a red-flowered top with her blond hair pulled back and long dangling earrings.
Margaret had called Claire with the news of her father’s death. She said that should take care of the problems with the estate. Margaret was quite sure that her father’s will left most of her father’s money to Patty Jo, but the farm would go to Margaret and Mark.
&n
bsp; “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Claire told her.
“Yes, I’m sad that he’s gone.” Margaret paused, then said, “But I’m so glad he isn’t trapped in that worthless body anymore. He hated what had happened to him. He was frustrated all the time.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
“It’s my job.”
“You went beyond your job.”
“If I did, don’t tell the sheriff.”
Margaret chuckled, then gave Claire the information about the funeral.
A mahogany casket sat at the front of the church with Walter Tilde laid out in its white interior. His eyes were closed and his thin white hair was slicked back. His forehead still bore the signs of the tan mark from his feed cap.
“Did you pay your respects to Walter?” Claire asked Rich.
He nodded.
The pastor came in the side door, and everyone stood to sing the first hymn. Claire listened to the song and watched the three people in the front row. Mark and Margaret were leaning into each other, sharing a hymnal and singing. Patty Jo was standing alone, holding no hymnal, silent.
Claire wondered what made the woman tick. What had possessed her to try to take the farm away from Walter’s daughter? How had she persuaded him to sign over power of attorney to her in the first place? She hoped for Margaret’s sake that Patty Jo would take her share of Walter’s estate and leave the county. She hoped it for her own sake. She didn’t like the woman.
Margaret had decided not to argue with Patty Jo about cremating her father. She didn’t think it was what her father wanted, but she didn’t see how it could matter. Patty Jo seemed fine with Walter’s ashes being buried next to Florence, and that was all that really was important to Margaret. She wanted her parents to be united again.
The day after the funeral she was surprised how relieved she felt. Mark had told her not to bother with milking the goats in the morning. He would do it. He wanted her to take it easy and relax. He patted her on the shoulder as he left to do the chores.
“It’s all over, Margie,” he said. “Your father’s at peace.”
“Yes, I think he is.”
Mark stopped at the door. “You know the first thing I’m going to do with your father’s farm?”
“What?”
“Plow under that field of soybeans. It’s about composted by now. Be good for the soil.”
Margaret smiled. Having the farm would be so good for Mark.
Five minutes later, the phone rang.
It was her father’s attorney, Mr. Matthews. “I’m afraid I have bad news, Margaret.”
Margaret’s mind went blank. What more could possibly happen? She asked, “What now?”
“Well, it appears that Patty Jo has her own lawyer, which is news to me. He called me this morning to say that Walter had written out another will. It postdates the one your father signed with me.”
“What does this mean?” She knew, but she had to ask.
“The new will takes precedence, I’m afraid,” Mr. Matthews paused, then tried again, “Margaret, I’m sorry to have to tell you that everything in your father’s estate goes to Patty Jo.”
Margaret looked at the table and noticed that Mark had spilled coffee on the tablecloth. A dark stain spread out from his coffee cup.
“Margaret?”
“Everything?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Does that mean the farm? Does she get the farm?”
“Yes, I’m afraid she gets it all.”
“But that isn’t what my father wanted.”
He sighed. Mr. Matthews had known her father a long time. “I know.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I’m afraid not. I had this lawyer fax over the new will before I called you. It looks legitimate to me. I checked and it was dated a week before your father’s stroke, so we have to assume he was competent.” Mr. Matthews stopped, then added, “I’m sorry, Margaret. I’d like to be able to help.”
“These things happen,” she said, because she knew she had to say something. She couldn’t blame Mr. Matthews. The only person to blame was herself. She should have known. She should have talked things over with her father after he married Patty Jo. But she had never guessed there was any need.
The lawyer said he’d send her a copy of the will and that she should call him if she had any questions. She thanked him and was glad when he said goodbye.
She was still wearing her bathrobe. It was going to be such a nice morning. She got a sponge out of the sink and ran hot water on it and squirted some dish soap on it. Then she tried to get the stain out of the tablecloth. Coffee was a bad stain. It faded but never really went away.
Then she stopped scrubbing. She looked down at her hands and started to cry. She didn’t want to have to tell Mark the bad news.
CHAPTER 10
The nurse had left Beatrice sitting in her wheelchair in the hallway by the door to her room. She guessed it was the equivalent to the front stoop. She was supposed to make pleasant conversation with everyone who wandered by.
There were many things Beatrice didn’t care for about this nursing home. But her pet peeve was all the senile people. How could one keep up one’s brainpower with such a low level of intellectual activity going on around one?
She looked up when she heard someone coming down the hall. Walter’s wife, the woman with frizzy blond hair, approached her. Her feet slapped the floor as she walked. What was she doing in the nursing home now that Walter had died?
The woman stopped in front of Beatrice’s wheelchair.
“Are you going to play bingo?” she asked.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“I’m Patty Jo.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Beatrice.”
Patty Jo looked her over as she sat in the wheelchair. “Why are you here?”
Beatrice told her, ashamed of the way her body had let her down.
Patty Jo tilted her head toward the community room, where people were getting ready for the afternoon bingo game. “What else have you got to do?”
“Not much. I’d like to do a crossword puzzle.”
“You’re good at those?”
“Yes. At least I used to be,” Beatrice added, “before.”
Patty Jo started pushing Beatrice’s wheelchair down the hall. “Bingo’ll be a good warm-up for you. Then you can move on to the crossword when it’s done.”
Beatrice decided not to argue. One game of bingo wouldn’t hurt.
Patty Jo pushed her wheelchair up to one of the long tables and sat down next to her. All the old, slumped people around them said hi. Beatrice gave a general nod to the table.
A card was placed in front of her and then the woman at the front of the room started calling out the squares. “B-fourteen . . . N-six.” Beatrice found it harder than she might have imagined to cover the squares that she had before the next one was called. Twice Patty Jo leaned over and pointed out one that she had missed. Beatrice didn’t seem to be able to notice the squares on the left side of her card. She had to force herself to look all the way over there.
How stupid she felt that bingo had become a difficult game for her. She was relieved when an older gentleman at her table waved his hand in the air and rasped out, “Bingo.”
While they were handing out new cards, Patty Jo said, “I play bingo at the casino in Red Wing. It’s only about a half an hour away. You see some real action there. I try to get up there a couple of times a week.”
“Do you make any money?” Beatrice had never been to a casino in her life.
“Sometimes. Had a streak of bad luck lately.”
They started the next card, and Beatrice focused as hard as she could. She started on the left side of the card, and that seemed to help her see those squares. When bingo was called, she was one square away from it herself.
“Condolences on your husband’s death,” Beatrice said to Patty Jo as the next cards were
distributed.
“Yes, it was sad. But Walter was ready to go.”
“He wasn’t in very good shape, was he?”
Patty Jo shook her head.
“Why are you still coming here?”
Patty Jo smiled. “I like to play bingo.”
By the end of the hour, Beatrice was exhausted. She felt as though she had never worked so hard, even playing bridge for an afternoon with life masters. Patty Jo pushed her back to her room.
“Thanks,” Beatrice said.
“You got the hang of it.”
Without saying anything more, Patty Jo left her sitting in her wheelchair. Beatrice wanted to crawl into bed, although it wasn’t even four in the afternoon. Then Patty Jo appeared in front of her and put a newspaper and a pencil into her lap. “The crossword.”
Patty Jo looked at the balance in the checkbook. Her lawyer told her that it would take a couple of months to move the estate through probate. In the meantime she couldn’t sell anything. She had spent the last of Walter’s ready cash at the casino last Friday. She could run a tab at the grocery store in town, but she needed to get some money to pay the bills. She knew what she needed to do.
The kerosene was kept in the pantry. They had used it to fill the lamps they lit when the storms took the power away. It was back behind the shoe polish and the candles. Patty Jo pulled out the bottle and then bent over and grabbed a handful of old rags. Walter had used them to polish his tools. He’d never let her throw anything away. “Save it,” he would say, “save it. It will come in handy for something.”
These rags would be plenty handy for what she had in mind. The sun would set in an hour or so. She probably should wait until after dark, but she wanted to get it over with. She would get her money out of this farm one way or another.
The stupid barn wasn’t worth the land it was built on, but Walter had insured it to the maximum.
Patty Jo kicked at the dirt as she walked to the barn. The soybean fields looked scorched. Interesting how quickly things decayed when they weren’t attended to. The overgrown lawn had been trampled down at the auction. She sure wasn’t going to pay someone to mow it. She wasn’t going to put another penny into this place.