From the Heart

by Eva Shaw

  The last time Jane had seen Babes, she said, was as a teen and attending some kind of rock revival festival in Chicago, sponsored by PBS. She told me, “Gramps and the band played before a performance by retro groups such as Peter, Paul and Mary. Slam Dunk hadn’t hit the big time yet, but still all the profits went to charity and then the band founded the Slam Dunk Foundation.” I already knew it provided care for children and adults who were terminally ill, whether that was housing, jobs, or outlandish wishes, much like Make-A-Wish Foundation does.

  Jane explained, “At that concert, Babes had been there as a substitute drummer with another group that came on before the Slam Dunk. He’d been good, but even then they said he kept forgetting things, little things, like his music, that drove the band nuts. I remember Gramps taking one of the guys aside because they were teasing Babes bad.”

  I could only imagine because when I’d been backstage with Jane before one of the band’s performances, the joking never stopped. Jane then said she’d heard Babes fell into tough times and Henry tried to find him, to give him a hand, but the drummer seemed to have dropped off the planet. “He was a good guy to me, Nica,” Jane said just before I left the hotel. “When you see him, tell him I miss him and will visit as soon as that Morales kid makes his appearance.” She patted her bundle of humanity.

  Waiting for Tina to finish her marathon personal chitchat, I heard, “Oh, he didn’t.” And, “Who told him that?”

  Tina smiled again, and apparently thought I might be tired, so she motioned me to have a seat. Babes had not been as imprudent as Max and Henry had imagined. Yet, then why did he ask Max for money? Why had he contacted Max at all? And for that reason, why hadn’t Babes asked Henry or even Jane for it? The why, of course, was that he wasn’t in financial jeopardy by any stretch.

  “You know about how complicated families can be, and I come from a big one,” Tina explained, replacing the receiver. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Now that I looked at the young woman, she was shockingly stunning and with Chinese and possibly native Hawaiian ancestry. I thought of Diamond Dupris. Would the woman whose father was the novelist and gadabout musician and mother who was from a respected Hawaiian family be as lovely? I guess I was staring because Tina cleared her throat.

  “Babes?”

  “Ma’am? No, babies here. Just old folks, really old ones, older than you. Oops, that didn’t come out right.” She giggled, looked horrified and then concerned for me. She came around to the front of the desk as if to help me to one of the guest chairs. She was dressed from head to toe in black, and about as big as a minute.

  “Oh, no, not babies. Not women. I would like to visit with Mr. Waller, Mr. Babes Waller, a resident here.”

  “Ohhhh, I am so sorry.” Tina laughed, producing a million-dollar smile and a voice like trickling water. I liked her even more. “Let me see which campus he’s in and his suite number. They just made some room transfers this morning.” She pulled up information on the computer, ran a manicured finger down the listing that was in front of her, and said, “New program, although all these changes make me crazy. Oh, don’t misunderstand, I like it here . . . gosh, who wouldn’t, at least until I can get a toe in at the TV station. I’m going to be a news anchor.”

  Tina had me sign in using an electronic keypad. She waited as I hesitated next to the square, asking my connection to the resident I was visiting. “Are you related to Mr. Waller? He’s not to have visitors who aren’t related because, well, he can get a tad upset at times.”

  “It’s really vital I speak to him,” I replied and if I hadn’t been on medical leave, this would be the time that I’d pull out my badge. “Does it help that this visit could involve something that the Yu family needs to know? I was just talking with Payton Yu yesterday.” Yes, I had just used Payton Yu’s connection and inferred that Payton wanted me there. So what if I was about to get the truth of Jimmy March’s death? Besides, what good are enemies if you can’t use them, right?

  “The Yu family? Payton Yu?” she said, and seemed impressed. “Of course, and why didn’t you say so? Did you say that Mr. Waller was something like an uncle?”

  Tina had been friendly, but when I mentioned the Yu name, she practically sparkled. I didn’t realize they had that much clout. “Like an uncle? Yes, yes.” Okay, if that works, I’ll get to visit Babes.

  Tina handed me a visitor’s badge, picked up the phone again, asked for a concierge to come to reception and at once a young man in a crisp gray uniform came through a set of doors behind me.

  The man made practiced small talk while keying an entrance code, then he escorted through the halls. Yes, I did mentally make note of the code. I didn’t plan to come back when the coast was clear or anything, but old FBI habits die hard. I couldn’t help but wonder at the plush royal purple carpet muffling my steps, the original art on the walls, and the conversation nooks complete with antiques, or at least excellent reproductions. But it all looked surprisingly real.

  The staff members were fashionably dressed in business casual attire and the smell of a scrumptious lunch wafted through the hall. Roast beef or chicken? I felt my stomach rumble, but I wasn’t there to eat. Instead, I needed a hearty meal of information.

  If the opulence of this place meant anything, Babes’s problems didn’t involve money, even thought he was kept behind locked doors. We stopped in front of another carved set of doors. The attendant keyed more numbers, which I memorized, and the door unlocked.

  “Please take a seat, ma’am,” he said, motioning me to one of the sitting room’s overstuffed chairs. Within moments, Babes came in and I recognized him from the old photos Jane had once showed me.

  “Hello, Babes. It’s Nica. I’m Jane Angieski’s cousin. I’m Henry Angieski’s niece.” Well, sort of and that was easier than second cousin on my biological grandmother’s side, right?

  “Jane—my little flower. You’re still as beautiful as . . . ” Babes said. His faced glowed and he tried to finish the sentence again, but stopped with “as.”

  “Babes, I’m not Jane, but she asked me to visit you,” I said.

  Whether or not he understood, he reached out and pulled me into a bear hug. I bent down to the man in the wheelchair and realized this was going to be okay. This was going to be a cake walk compared to the interrogations I have done, but it was the first time I had asked questions, albeit unofficially, since my cancer treatments.

  Babes pulled me closer. The arms trembled, but his grasp was shockingly strong on my shoulders. Then he pushed me back to look me up and down. A city street map of wrinkles were etched into the ancient, milk-chocolate colored face. The skin from his chin rested on the collar of his open necked green golf shirt, and the once bushy eyebrows, that Jane said where his trademark, were now sparse wild gray hairs each with an agenda of its own.

  “Seems you’ve got a good life here,” I said, looking around. Tchaikovsky played softly in the background. Arrangements of hibiscus in shocking yellows and reds were displayed here and there, and a baby grand piano waited for attention in a corner of the room. The furniture looked like it had come from ads in Town and Country magazine and was nicer than the pieces in my condo in Washington, D.C.

  “Yeppers, but these digs jest temporary, girly, as I’m headed back to the road next week,” he replied, patting my hand vigorously, almost like if he stopped that action, I would disappear. He didn’t attempt to lift himself from the wheelchair and an attendant pushed him over to a corner so we could sit. Then his eyes hazed over and the ability to talk with me vanished at the same time.

  “Going to play in Atlantic City. New group forming there. Called me the other night. Asked all pretty like if I come down. Going to strut my stuff all around the eastern seaboard. Maybe a tour, even. We’ll really make hot music. Yessiree, got the call last night. It was from Buddy Holly, the man himself, asking for me and my drums.�
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  I scooted a chair closer. Could he remember an event that happened years ago if his mind had gone so far as to think that a rock great from the nineteen-fifties was alive—and would settle for a so-so drummer?

  “How are they treating you here?” I knew enough about Alzheimer’s not to try to upset patients with the facts. No need to burst a bubble or insist that Buddy Holly was singing in Heaven, that he’d died in a plane crash in a cornfield in Iowa decades before.

  Babes chuckled. “Treating me?” His belly jiggled, like he relished secret joke. “After every gig, you’d never believe it, honey girl, well that little guy who’s in charge of the bell hops, yeah, you saw him, he takes care of me, all personal like. All the time like he’s assigned to me alone. And never once complains about bringing up the drums from the limo downstairs, never once does he say nothing. He’s a saying, ‘Mr. Waller, it’s my pleasure to serve you.’ Serve me? I like that guy. Wants to get into music someday, he says. Yes, he says that. Says he can sing. Told him just yesterday that I’ll call some friends, my agent and people at RCA Records. Get him to record a demo and I’ll pay to have forty-fives sent out to the rock-and-roll radio stations. But he won’t hear nothin’ about it.”

  It took me more than a moment to figure out a forty-five wasn’t a gun, but you know my background. Just for history’s sake, at one time vinyl records came in two sizes; forty-fives, about the size of a sandwich plate, and seventy-eights, about the size of a dinner plate. “You’re a good man, Babes.”

  “They’re all pretty nice kids for hotel folks. No, this ain’t the Ritz, but it’ll do.” He waved his hand in the air.

  Yes, this wasn’t the Ritz, but it was the right place for Babes.

  “Yep, Jane. The hotel workers are mighty kind to this rocker.”

  “Babes, my name is Nica. I’m Jane’s cousin.” I tried to look into his brown and glassy eyes, but I could tell that it would be easier to pretend I was Henry’s granddaughter, especially if I wanted to know about Jimmy March and the old days.

  “Listen, Jane, I just give them a buck tip and they take notice. A silver dollar is still big money in this part of town. Yep, that’s why I keep these silver dollars in my jacket pocket.” He handed me a red bingo chip from the handful he had extracted while talking. “Here’s one for the subway ride home. Honey girl, you need two?”

  “Money . . . ” I murmured and took the chip and twisted it in my fingers. This visit certainly was about money and the mystery of how a down-on-his-luck drummer with Alzheimer’s disease was living in the lap of luxury.

  “Been in swankier places, but it’ll do. For now.”

  I held his hand and said, “Yeah, it’s a good hotel. You’re a blessed man.”

  “Amen, Jane. Hey, you see that wild cat Henry anymore? He was always asking where you were. Never seen a grown man act more like a protective mama than Henry. You remember him at all, Jane? It was a tall, white guy, played guitar in a band. Thought he could play the drums, too? Can’t remember what that skinny guy’s name was who replaced me, but Henry said soon as I got my drinking under control, I’d get my old job back. Henry’s a good man. If you see him again, you tell him I’m not drinking none now. I’m AA-ing it. I’m reformed. You remember Henry? A tall guy with blond hair? You remember him at all?”

  “Henry is Jane’s grandfather, Babes.” It sounded like I was talking to a child, and in some ways, he was. Perhaps, he’d always been. It hurt to know that this was no longer the Babes who had treated my cousin like a princess.

  Once, when I was recovering from a treatment, Jane and I flipped through old photo albums. She got a faraway look in her eyes and had said, “Babes taught me to play poker. Pretzels were the stakes. But within one week, I was beating my teacher and he wouldn’t play anymore. I remember vaguely, just a child at the time, the smell of ‘cough medicine’ on his breath and so did the bottle that he kept in his back pocket. And then he was out of the band and out of my life.”

  “Sure, sure, I remember, Jane’s grandfather.” Babes’s eyes fogged and his chins sagged. All three. He stared into memories I couldn’t see and his eyes blinked and then closed.

  I watched his chest go up and down, hoping when he opened his eyes, we could continue. Yet, as I touched his hand, he flinched and yanked it away as if I’d hit or he’d touched a hot stove. When he looked up at me, he didn’t know me. However, it was as if he were gazing right through me. A tear slipped down his pleated cheek. Then another. I reached up and he allowed me to blot them with a tissue I’d fished out of my purse. This time, Babes didn’t flinch. Whatever had made him cry was not going to be voiced to me and that was even more heartrending because I could not comfort him.

  A long minute stretched to three or four and I waited. I just prayed Babes would be returning shortly.

  In the adjacent dining room, I could hear the sound of flatware and plates being divvied out. Now I heard Broadway hits coming from the sound system that was piped through Carlton Villas. I watched as other family members started congregating in the visiting room to share a meal with their loved ones. And I waited for some flicker of recognition from Babes.

  He blinked, sat upright, and his eyes cleared. Now was my chance, now or never. “I thought of a friend of ours the other day,” I began slowly, falling over my words. “Yes, Henry and I were talking about him.” I prayed for direction and this was not the direction I anticipated but it was the best I could do. “It’s someone from the past.”

  “Hey, I ’member the past good, honey girl. Do I know you?” he asked, squinting and rubbing his eyes.

  “I’m Nica. I am Jane Angieski’s cousin and I’m visiting you.”

  “Janey. Sure. I know who you are, Jane. And say, just look at you. You’re a pretty girl.”

  I was not going to correct him again and lose the possibility and reason for my visit, so I just nodded.

  “You met somebody? Who? Was it one of the guys? The guys from the old band?”

  “Jimmy March.”

  “Noooooo.” It was a long drawn out and painful moan of a word. Babes’s eyes didn’t move from the folds of his belly. We both watched it rise up and down.

  Chapter 7

  “That’s right, Babes, you remember Jimmy March.” I tried to calm my voice as if I were calming a panicky witness to a crime. “I am certain if Jimmy were here, here in this room with you, he’d be putting a new act together. I love his music, especially now that they’re on CDs, um, records, forty-fives and seventy-eights, I’m sure.”

  “No, no, no, no,” came in labored, anxious puffs of denial. About what, I didn’t know, but was the “no” edged with fear? Or was I suffering from an over-active imagination and having withdrawals from being on active bureau duties? The circle of his mouth, as he said the word, still lingered in a huge, quivering oval. Did his eyes grow with alarm or was I jumping to conclusions again?

  I smiled and calmly said, “Yes, Jimmy March. I bet he’s got contacts in clubs, like those in Vegas. He’s as famous as—” Suddenly, I couldn’t think of any rock stars that Babes might know. Then “Love Me Tender” came on the elevator music that was being piped into the room. “As Elvis Presley.”

  “No, no, no.” This time he was not moaning and he was not quiet. He yelled. Visitors and residents stopped their conversations and stared. Sounds from the dining room stilled. No one was breathing, including me.

  “Hush now, Babes. It’s okay,” I cooed and patted his knee, afraid that the staff would kick me out for harassment.

  He smacked my hand away. Then he stopped with his beefy fingers in midair. Babes looked across the room and I tried to follow his gaze, but in the next instant the buttons on his golf shirt took all his attention. He twisted them so tightly I was afraid they’d pop off and then noticed two were already missing. He started on a surviving one as a gentle-faced nurse who was talking with a p
atient sitting at another window looked our direction. She smiled at me and nodded as if to say, “That’s why he’s here,” and that Babes’s outburst was expected. The noises from the dining started again and visitors went back to their quiet, soothing conversations. Babes just buttoned and unbuttoned his shirt. I started to breathe and waited. But not for long.

  He craned his neck forward, looked both directions, and finally whispered, “Jimmy’s gone. Guess you didn’t know. Guess you didn’t read it in the paper. Sorry to have to tell you . . . most of them are gone. All gone.”

  “Yes, I knew he died.”

  “Gone, all gone,” he repeated as if he were convincing himself.

  “You do remember Jimmy March?” I spoke quickly, so I wouldn’t lose Babes to the memories he was silently chewing on as if they were a wad of gum.

  “I saw him lying there.” Babes’s eyes cleared and the triple chins wiggled. He shuttered.

  “Where did you see him?”

  Again in a whisper and only after looking around the room, he said, “I saw the blood. Plenty of blood, too. Red and sticky.” He trembled to the point that the wheelchair wobbled. “I touched it to make sure it wasn’t catsup. Guys were always pulling pranks on me. But this time, it was different. It was the real deal.”

  I whispered the next questions. “You did? You saw blood?” Now the truth, or never, I thought.

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed the fingers hard, and said, “Dead. But don’t you go and tell nobody. They said not to tell you, not tell nobody and I never did. I seen it was him dead. I practically seen it happen—well nearly did.” Babes released my fingers and then wrung his. He pushed up and tried to get out of the wheelchair but flopped back in the seat. He kept saying, “Don’t tell. Don’t tell. Never tell,” as he massaged his bulging, arthritic knuckles.