From the Heart

by Eva Shaw

  I watched him relax and I smiled and nodded until he looked at me again. “Babes, you can tell me about it, about when you saw the blood. You can tell me since I know all about Jimmy.”

  “Well, cuz you already know. I guess it’s okay. But I was afraid, let me tell you. Heard the shot, too. Loud.”

  “Did you see Jimmy fire the gun toward his chest?”

  Anger exploded. “Who told you that?”

  I’d seen Alzheimer’s patients become instantly violent as if something just pops inside them, and I prayed I hadn’t pushed Babes that far. Apparently, my mouth hadn’t caught up to my brain because then I said, “Everyone says Jimmy killed himself.”

  He pushed his hands into his cheeks and then covered his eyes as he said, “Never seen so much blood,” like he was reliving it. Then he turned toward the window.

  “Babes? Did Jimmy shoot the gun at his chest? Was he playing Russian roulette? Was Jimmy holding a gun?”

  “I hear the phone. Who are you? I’m waiting for Buddy to call, you know Buddy Holly, right? He’s the greatest, man, the greatest. We’re planning a gig—going to L.A. Yep, Buddy Holly. Would you ask the bell captain or the clerk at the front desk if that call is for me?”

  “No, Babes, it’s for somebody else. I just saw the woman over there getting the call. It’s not for you. Besides, I have a few more things I want to talk with you about. Babes?” I was too late. His eyes had glassed over and his chins sagged. Even the button, which had held his interest, was forgotten.

  I lifted his hands from the handles of the wheelchair and folded them across his belly. His cheek was cool to my touch, but his breathing was slow and even. I bowed my head, rested my hands on his fingers, and did something way out of the Old Me character. The New Me whispered, “Heavenly Father, please care for Babes. He’s a good man. He was good to Jane when she was a kid. He needs you now, Father. Watch over him and be with him as he plays his final songs. In Jesus name I pray. Amen.” Out loud I added, “Good bye, Babes,” and kissed his wrinkled cheek.

  • • •

  Slowly, I returned to the reception area thinking more clearly than ever how not one of us knows the number of our days. The years are kinder on some than others. My adoptive parents, in their late forties when we became a family, had been gone five years. Babes, I thought, must be about Henry’s age, but life hadn’t dealt him an active body and a clear mind like Henry.

  I tried to focus on what I knew, rather than the tough things that can happen to people. Babes said Jimmy March was lying on the floor and there was blood. But can one with dementia lie?

  In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m always suspicious of people. It is my job, or at least was my job. Bad things happened to musicians and flamboyant novelists like Jimmy March and out of loyalty or fear, Babes could have been told lies then and now believed them.

  I slid a finger on the edge of the reception area, waited, smiled, and waited. I needed a bit of breathing space and Tina obliged, again eyebrow deep into a personal phone conversation. After a few moments, I coughed quietly.

  Tina beamed at me like an old friend, a friend who understood that a girl had to make personal phone calls, and chatted some more. And frankly, I didn’t care. But then, I whispered, “My adopted uncle, Babes Waller, seems to be doing well. He was glad to see me.”

  The receptionist held up her index finger and said into the phone, “If I go to that club, will he be there? Are you going to wear that halter again? Okay, yeah, someone’s here and I need to go. Later.”

  Tina finally gave me her full attention as I lied, “Since I live on the mainland and it’s impossible to visit regularly, I wonder if you could tell if he has other visitors? I just want to make sure he’s not lonely.”

  The receptionist’s was still excited and a bit squeaky from her clubbing plans. “Mr. Waller. He’s my favorite resident. He’s like this big old teddy bear. Before I started here at the front desk, I worked part time with the caregivers. I’d turn on the music at night and he and I would dance. Yes, he can walk, but chooses not to . . . or some of the nursing staff say he forgets how to walk, from time to time. And when I work nights, I sneak away from the front desk and talk with him. He gets lonely at night, just like me. I like to hear him play the piano. Sometimes, well, you know, sometimes he forgets how to play and just bangs the keys.” She laughed again, a gentle sound that told me oodles about her kindness to Babes. “Sometimes, he plays the same song over and over. I can handle that for about twenty minutes and I’m out of there.” She stopped abruptly and covered her mouth.

  “I assume the costs of his, ah, residence here is still covered by . . . ”

  “Apparently the company that owns the facility gets regular payment or he wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure,” she said with so much force that there might have been problems with other residents. But I was here just for information about Babes.

  Tina didn’t seem at all troubled by her honesty, picking up her cell and looking anxious to make another call. Yet, since she was used to being with “old” people, she was a patient woman with me.

  Tina offered, “You’ll want to talk with Mr. Quinn. Oliver Quinn. He’s the manager. Would you like me to see if he’s available?”

  I nodded. I was about to meet the manager of the care facility as Babes’s loving niece and since was my first visit ever, I was a darned neglectful one.

  It took barely a minute before the door marked “Private” swung open. Oliver Quinn appeared.

  Tall, lean, and tan, he looked exactly as if a Hollywood movie producer had cast him to play a professional administrator. He even had a goatee and the perfect amount of gray at his sideburns.

  If he were part of an official investigation, I would put his name to the “not to be trusted” category. He had that look and I had to force down my FBI training because I hoped he’d tell me how Babes Waller was able to live in such a luxurious situation when what I heard was that the elderly man didn’t have two pennies to rub together.

  He smoothly chit-chatted about the weather, producing the brightest teeth outside a toothpaste ad, and I realized that he’d had plastic surgery or at least Botox. His face just didn’t move like a normal human.

  With the smallest gesture, he ushered me into his office and with a whisper, the door closed.

  The man was first-rate at his job. As much as I wasn’t comfortable there under these circumstances, false ones, he gushed graciousness, offering me coffee, then a tropical fruit punch or water. There was a hint of a South African accent as he said, “My, my, so good to finally meet you, Miss Waller.” He licked his lips as his moist fingertips again touching my hand.

  He stepped behind his desk, but waited for me to sit first. Time to correct the Waller/Dobson connection and while, to some, not telling all the truth is as bad as lying, you’ve already recognized that I’m above saying things to get the information I needed. Besides, Diamond’s future depended on me and perhaps whatever information I could extract from this superficial guy now sitting behind the maple desk.

  “Dobson, my last name is Dobson,” I corrected and I wanted to say, I’ve come here to get information about a death Babes may or may not have witnessed back in the nineteen-eighties. I didn’t know he’d lost his memory, but what he told me might have merit. And now I want information as to who was paying his bills. Yes, that’s what I would have said if I had a badge on my hip and the sanction of the Bureau.

  I racked my brain for some method to say these things when Quinn broke the ice. “Ms. Dobson, thank you for clarifying that. Let me assure you, it’s been a pleasure to serve your uncle’s needs all these years,” he said.

  “He seems contented for the most part,” I replied, wondering if Babes often had outbursts like he just had with me, when I asked him about the past. I honestly doubted Mr. Quinn knew about Babes’s behavior, or that of any of the
other residents. I’d give good odds to the fact that he rarely, if ever, entered the residential portion of the building. “He seems to be doing well, considering. But I’m troubled, really because, well . . . “ How did one ask if her “uncle” Babes was a donut short of a dozen? “How is his, well, his . . . ”

  “Memory. Of course, in cases like Mr. Waller’s, memory challenges are hard to confirm without a full medical work up, which we can do at any time, if you’ll just sign some forms and give your approval,” he added as dollar signs flashed in his eyes.

  “No, I don’t think that would be necessary, unless the doctors feel it needs to be done.” Who in the world was I to manage Babes’s care? Yeah, I knew the answer, too.

  “He is content, and like many of our guests, he prefers to live in days gone by.”

  “What about those memories, Mr. Quinn? Can he remember, say, when we were much younger?” I asked, and as much as I hated it, my voice sounded petulant and childlike, even a bit whiney. I clasped my fingers to look demure, which was tough for me because I wanted to blurt out: “Okay, Quinn. Let’s have it. Can Babes remember being at the scene of Jimmy March’s murder or suicide—depending on which story one wants to believe?” But of course I couldn’t and wouldn’t say that.

  Mr. Quinn’s smile was sugarcoated as he purred, “Your uncle’s long-term memories seem to be excellent.” He turned slightly and keyed something into the laptop computer. “Yes, Barnabas has been with us for awhile. Just a moment, okay, yes, here is Mr. Waller’s file.

  “Barnabas.” I said it out loud and it almost came with a snap. “He’s called Babes, Mr. Quinn.”

  As if I hadn’t even spoken, Quinn continued, “Unhappily, Ms. Dobson, his short-term memories are often foggy. You understand at his age, the treasured memories we have are the ones we are able to revisit, but the daily ones for the moment are often lost. As family, I’m sure you’re aware of it.”

  “So could he recall when I was young, perhaps when I was a girl? Could he remember the people we both knew? Could he remember incidents that happened, say thirty years ago?” I asked and counted to ten to curb my excitement because I was this close to demanding: “Could Babes be telling the truth about how the novelist died and about that pool of blood?”

  “Most likely, he can recall when you were younger, yes. But please be aware that I’m talking from an administrative capacity.” He repositioned the fountain pen set on the corner of his desk and leaned back in the leather chair.

  “And from a medical viewpoint?”

  “Naturally, you’ll want to know that, since you’re his niece. If you’d like to speak with his physician, Lillian Lamont is in on Fridays. She can give you the immediate physical diagnosis. We have everything here in the file.” He patted the laptop in front of him. “However, it’s our policy to have each physician discuss the condition of residents personally, with their next of kin.”

  Quinn flipped open his gold trimmed, leather-bound daybook, and looked at his Rolex as if checking to see whether he could spend more time on this family member. Then he said, “Oh, yes, right. Dr. Lamont is here from ten to five on Fridays. We schedule weekly appointments with the physician. Shall I e-mail her and ask her to set up a personal appointment? Or perhaps you’d like to talk with our resident psychologist? She’s here Wednesdays. The physical therapists visit Mondays, and the various therapy and activity groups assist our residents on the other days, including volunteers who bring in children and babies. Our residents especially enjoy the entertainment from a juggler to the magician and especially Dr. Funny Fingers, a big burly clown of a man. Sundays, we have nondenominational services as well as Mass. Our Jewish, Buddhist, and Islamic residents have services, too, of course. It’s an active schedule, but I’m won’t bore you. I’m sure you know all this from . . . ”

  He waited. He seemed to expect me to fill in even more about the wheelchair-bound musician. He had all the records on the little computer screen in front of him, but unless I dashed around to the back of the desk and knocked Quinn to the floor, which would have honestly delighted me because of his cheesy, ingratiating smile, I wasn’t going to see it from where I was sitting. Hence, no way was he revealing who footed Babes’s bills.

  Was his unfinished sentence a ploy? A test? Did he suspect that I was fishing for specific information or that I wasn’t some distant relative to the aging musician?

  I looked down at my fingers. God help me, I thought, and then words sprang from my mouth. Maybe it was a Heavenly Nudge. “The trust.”

  From the smile that just slightly tipped the corner of his perfectly Botoxed mouth, I was on target. “Yes, the trust,” he repeated. “As I’m sure the attorneys have explained, we keep the trust informed of Mr. Waller’s condition and specific needs. I assume that the trust informed you that Mr. Waller is being included in a drug trial of a new memory-enhancing medication that has been extremely successful already throughout Europe. From the notes here, it seems he’s becoming more active, asking to play the piano, and even making conversation with the staff.”

  “As his ‘adopted’ niece,” I started, and yes, the word “adopted” did sound like there were quotes around it. “I’m not informed as to the day-to-day business the trust does, so I appreciate your update, Mr. Quinn.”

  I was about to ask more about the trust, such as the names of the attorneys, but something stopped me. It was Quinn. He’d scooted around the desk and snuggled up in the guest chair next to me. He placed a moist hand on my shoulder, which I could feel straight through the fabric of my linen shirt. All I wanted to do was get out. Fast.

  As a ten-year veteran of the Bureau, not showing discomfort was drummed into every agent and consultant’s head. I was not going to flinch or be intimidated with Mr. Quinn’s clammy fingers sticking to my skin (through fabric, but you get the idea). I stood and disconnected from the hand. “You’ve been kind.” I slipped the band of my purse over my shoulder and inched toward the door. With fingers on the handle, I said, “May I come back in the next few days? I’m afraid I barged in today. I was so anxious to see, um, Uncle Babes and he and I got a bit emotional, I’m afraid.” Although I doubted that Oliver Quinn felt emotions, I was being charitable.

  “Yes, my dear. And if you’ll call ahead, perhaps we can have lunch or some coffee,” he replied and if I hadn’t scooted out of the chair, the guy would have placed a “comforting” arm over my shoulders and I would have had to burn my favorite Jones of New York shirt to get his creepiness out it.

  He beamed like I was his. I followed his eyes as he checked my left hand for a ring, and opened the door to the reception area. Tina was there just clicking off her phone. I thanked Quinn with a forceful handshake that would have done a professional wrestler proud. From the glint in his eyes, Quinn seemed pleased wherever his eyes wandered over me.

  There could have been a slim chance that I was mistaking the wandering eyes and the lecherous grin for one of manly appreciate because I’d been out of the dating scene a good nine years. But I didn’t think so.

  Tina whispered to someone on the phone and slammed it down. Mr. Quinn and I snapped to attention. Had I actually been smiling back? I’d save the shiver and ponder this later, right after I gargled for twenty minutes with Listerine.

  I realized at that moment, I had to see those files. You’ve heard on TV cop shows how they say, “follow the money”? It’s true, and by looking at the records, it would be clear who was footing the bill for Uncle Babes’s care. I checked my watch. I didn’t have to be at the concert hall to practice with the band until three. I had a good two hours to snoop and not get caught. No, I didn’t concoct a fancy plan. I’d been in situations tougher than that and knew one would come.

  Quinn held the door for me as he put two fingers on my forearm. “Family is always welcome, especially since you’re the first true family member to have visited Mr. Waller since, well, my, since his
arrival, according to our records.” No guilt attached to the words, but then again, Quinn had the science of not ruffling well-heeled feathers down pat.

  I couldn’t come up with a logical justification as to why I hadn’t visited before. “So good to see for myself how well Uncle Babes is, especially since I haven’t, well, been able to visit like a good niece should. Thank you for your time.”

  “No need to explain, Miss Dobson. You see,” Quinn added with just the appropriate measure of sympathy and apology, “the trust administrator explained everything.”

  He smiled, glanced at his watch and said, “Oh, I must run, my dear lady. I’ve got a two o’clock tee time with our governor, Margaret Flint, and oh how Miss Margaret hates it when I’m late. You do understand.”

  I nodded and realized Quinn was fine at his job—which was catering to the rich.

  Whatever the trust had discussed, I was glad to get out of Quinn’s office and into the tropical air.

  As I headed to the street, I started thinking about how different life was for me now. Otis and Jean Ticky had passed on after I finished my master’s degree, but love ’em or not, I had family again, as frustratingly busy as Jane was, as warm and friendly and genuine as the others. Yes, they were family. Babes? None, or at least no one who cared enough to visit.

  Because of the cancer, the New Me understood that being a consultant for the FBI didn’t seem glamorous or fascinating as it once had. If it hadn’t been for breast cancer, my backside would be glued to some office chair in a closet-sized and windowless cubicle poring over some crook’s financial records or filling out reports that I wondered if anyone, other than my boss, ever read.