I looked up at the sky full of stars, dimmed slightly by the brightness of Pirkle’s house. Home. School. Alana. They were worlds away.
How long can a person survive . . .
. . . without sleep? I flagged Mom down before she left for work the next morning and asked if we could meet for lunch. She was so pleased, I felt a little guilty it wasn’t a spontaneous show of filial affection. I needed information. And sleep.
I dragged myself through yoga, even nodding off during our sustained stretching poses.
“What’s wrong with you?” Alana asked at passing period. “You look like a zombie.”
“I’m tired. Didn’t get much sleep last night. Work.” It was tough stringing words together for even the simplest sentence.
After art, I went straight home and fell into bed praying the phone wouldn’t ring. I doubt I’d have heard it if it did. When my alarm went off twenty minutes before Mom’s lunch break, I was sleeping so soundly I had a moment of total confusion upon waking. Which made me think of Pirkle and the time he thought he was in his old house.
>>>
I like eating in the hospital cafeteria, which most people find strange. There are the usual sad and worried faces of patients’ families, but for me, the familiar faces were Mom’s co-workers and friends. We picked a small table off in the corner where I could talk to her privately.
“So, my client Mr. Pirkle . . .” I needed to phrase it in just the right way to keep Mom from blowing it out of proportion. She looked at me expectantly. “He’s called a few times at night and . . .”
“Did they ever catch the people who burglarized him?” she interrupted.
“No . . . I don’t think so. But anyway, he’s called a few times at night, and I think those were just butt-dials . . .”
“Butt dials?”
I tried not to sigh.
“You know. When you sit on the phone in your back pocket and it randomly dials a number. My number’s programmed into Mr. Pirkle’s phone, so it happens.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I keep mine in my purse.”
“It could happen there too. Anyway, once when I was over at his house, he seemed really confused. He said something about how he thought he was at his old house, and I think he was scared and just wanted to talk to someone.”
I didn’t mention the story about the toy car, and how I’d told it to him. Twice. I wondered if I’d ever be able to tell Mom about that. And if she’d view it as a betrayal that I’d confided in an almost-stranger instead of her.
“Doesn’t he have any family or close friends he can talk to?”
“That’s just it. I don’t think he does. I mean, I know he has a daughter, but I don’t know where she is or even if she’s alive. She’d be old by now because he’s ninety.”
“There must be someone.”
“Anyway, last night he called, and I went over there, and he was pretty out of it.”
“You went over there? What time?”
“You were asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you so I left a note.”
“Hudson, is this really a good idea? Maybe it’s time for you to just get a normal job.”
“Can we not talk about that now? Can I just finish what I’m trying to say?”
She looked down at her plate and took a deep breath.
“Okay, I’m sorry. Go on. What do you mean out of it? How out of it?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Just confused again. Saying stuff like his daughter is living in the neighbor’s house and she’s three years old. Like that.”
“It could be delirium. Or it could be dementia.”
“Dementia? No! Talk to him during the day and he’s like you and me. I mean . . . he’s really sharp.”
“Deborah, is this your son?” A young nurse stood at our table. She wore Winnie the Pooh scrubs and had a kind, reassuring face.
“Becky, this is Hudson. Hudson, Becky and I used to work together in the pediatric ward. She still does.”
“We had a great time together,” Becky smiled. “It was only for a few months, but I really enjoyed working with your mom.” She turned to Mom. “He favors you,” she winked. “Strong family resemblance.”
I barely heard what she said. That word “dementia” was beeping in my head like Mrs. Dickinson’s broken smoke alarm. Mr. Pirkle. Imposing. Strong. Dignified. Sometimes gruff, bordering on rude. Demented? No. Demented was like a clown or some character in a horror movie.
“Enjoy your lunch,” Becky was saying.
“Thanks for stopping to say hi,” Mom kicked me under the table to get my attention.
Dementia? I thought. I just wanted Becky to leave so I could tell Mom how wrong she was. “Nice to meet you.”
“How’s the pizza?” Mom asked once Becky was gone.
“Mom, he’s not demented. I mean, he gets confused. But old people get confused a lot. I mean, sometimes I see it in Mrs. Dickinson. I tell her to restart her computer when she’s having a problem and then the next time I have to tell her all over again. And Grandma always forgets where she puts her keys, even though she’s not even that old.”
“I didn’t say he was demented. I said it sounds to me like he might be suffering from dementia. There’s a difference between dementia and forgetfulness.”
“Like what?”
“Like forgetting where you put your keys or how to fix a broken computer is probably just forgetfulness. Thinking your elderly daughter is three years old. Well, that sounds like dementia.”
“But I’m telling you: he’s perfectly normal. Even above normal during the day. It’s just that I think he gets confused at night. Maybe he’s not sleeping well. Maybe he’s drinking. When I woke up today I didn’t know where I was for a second.”
“There’s a syndrome called sundowner’s,” Mom said. “We see it in the hospital in some of our elderly patients. Patients with Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia sometimes get worse when the sun goes down. No one’s exactly sure why it happens. Maybe your Mr. Pirkle is suffering from that aspect of it.”
My Mr. Pirkle?
“He’s fine during the day.”
“Hudson, you’re not with him every day. You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. And there are people who only suffer from sundowner’s syndrome. It’s a sort of night-time only form of dementia. Less common but it happens.”
I put down my second slice of pizza. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry.
“Is there anything they can do for it?” I asked. “Any medicine that can cure it?”
“Cure? No. But he needs to see a doctor. You have to call in his support system. You’re not equipped to deal with this. You’re too young, and you don’t have the expertise.”
“I told you, there is no support system.”
“There always is,” Mom said. Mom with a support network so vast, she couldn’t imagine life without one. “People like you, Hudson. They open up to you. Just dig a little.”
>>>
It was late by the time I got around to walking the dogs, so it wasn’t completely surprising that I ran into Bryce driving Alana home from school. It was embarrassing even though it shouldn’t have been. After all, Alana knew it was my job, and she loved the dogs, especially Jennifer. But when it came to a side-by-side, and one guy’s taking you home in his brand-new SUV and the other one’s walking a bunch of dogs, there was no comparison.
Bryce leaned on the horn right when he got up behind me which made me jump and caused the dogs to lurch forward, straining against their leashes. I didn’t fall, but I didn’t exactly look graceful either. In her anxiety, Lady ducked between my legs, looping the leash around my ankle. This gave the other dogs the idea to do the same thing which resulted in me assuming the awkward position of hopping on one foot, arms flailing. They pulled up alongside me, and Alana rolled down her window.
Bryce leaned over and smiled (smirked?). “Hey, man,” he said.
“Hi . . .” I searched for the group in my universe that could include both Alana and Bryce, “ . . .guys.” I yanked Duke back from the gutter and shook off Lady’s leash. “Just walking the dogs,” I added foolishly. Of course I was walking the dogs.
“Hi, Jenn-i-fer,” Alana puckered her lips in that baby-talk way people do with pets and babies. “His name’s Jennifer, but he’s a boy,” she said to Bryce. She said it to be funny—to bring us together, the two guys in her life. Bryce and I weren’t ever going to be buds or hang out, trading compliments about our girl. But maybe we could come together and laugh at a dog’s ridiculous name.
It didn’t work that way, at least not for me. If anything, it made me feel worse, as if I was the one with the girl’s name.
“Ha!” he snorted while Alana provided the supportive back-up laughter. “Why’s he have a girl’s name?”
“I know. Huh?” Alana said. “Bye, Hudson. See you tomorrow.”
The window rolled up and off they drove.
I was the guy who walked the dog with a girl’s name.
The guy who’d be there for Alana the next day when Bryce was off playing football.
If you need to dig, a shovel will usually do the trick . . .
. . . but in Pirkle’s case, it took a bulldozer.
I rapped on the door with a sinking sensation, not sure who would be behind it. It’d been three days since the underwear/combat boots incident, and I needed to return the key. And dig.
The man who answered was the dignified Mr. Pirkle. And the reserved Mr. Pirkle. But after our last visit, I wasn’t sure I’d be invited in.
“I’m returning the key,” I said by way of explanation. “I took it home with me the other night.”
“Oh, yes,” he said uncertainly dropping the key into his pocket. “Why . . . tell me again why I gave it to you.”
“I took it. In case I needed to get in. Do you want me to put it back in the hiding place?”
“Yes . . . no. That’s not necessary. I’ll do it.”
When I didn’t leave and the silence extended beyond the normal comfort zone, he invited me in.
“Would you like something to drink, Hudson? I’m afraid all I have is diet soda or water.”
“Water’s fine.” I followed him into the kitchen. “I thought I’d drop by and return the key. I was going to stop by your neighbor’s afterwards.”
“You sweet on that girl?” Pirkle asked. “I’ve seen you over there. Seem to be spending a lot of time together.”
I thought about the times I’d seen him peering out the front kitchen window when Fritzy and I were shooting hoops. “No, nothing like that,” I said. “We’re just friends, and we play on a basketball league together.” That last sentence came out with feigned indifference, but I was prickly with pride when I said it.
“Pretty girl,” he handed me a glass of water. “Should we sit here in the kitchen?”
“Mr. Pirkle, I have another reason for coming.” I’d rehearsed this scenario multiple times in the past few days. “I’m doing a project for my government class about WWII, and I wondered if I could interview you about your personal experiences.”
He’d never know this wasn’t the truth. And what older person could refuse to help a young person working on a school project? This would be my gateway to his mind. Or so I hoped.
“Government class. What does WWII have to do with government class?”
I’d actually thought about that too and realized it would have been better to say history class. But I was a terrible liar, and although I was lying about the school project, I couldn’t bring myself to lie about the actual class I was taking.
“We’re learning about the Department of War and how it ceased to exist right after WWII and eventually became the Department of Defense.”
This was the answer I’d fortunately prepared ahead of time even though it still didn’t explain where his personal WWII experiences fit in. I was hoping he’d buy it. He gave me the head-ducking, skull-examining look.
“I told you I was a WWII vet?”
“You mentioned it once.”
“I don’t know how interesting my experiences would be to anyone.”
“It would be very interesting to me, if you don’t mind.”
“I suppose I could answer a few questions,” he said cautiously.
I pulled out the folded piece of paper and pen from my back pocket which I’d brought to make it look like I was taking notes for my class. Where to begin? I just wanted to get him talking, hoping something useful might be spilled.
“Were you drafted, or did you enlist?” I began.
“I enlisted,” he said. “Before the war. Before Pearl Harbor. My buddy and I. We grew up together, and after high school it seemed like a good idea since we didn’t have any other plans. We were working at dead-end jobs, and a lot of us thought that war was coming. Better to enlist and determine your future, than get drafted. Shows you how much we knew.”
“What was your friend’s name?” The chances of him still being alive were remote, but I kept digging like Mom said.
“His name was Charles, but he went by Chuck.”
The “was” made clear that Chuck was past tense. And of course, he didn’t volunteer a last name. It would have been strange if I asked for one.
“How did you feel after you enlisted?” Stupid question.
“I don’t remember. I s’pose I felt all right.” Ask a stupid question, you’ll get a stupid answer.
“Why did you decide to join the Marines?”
“How’d you know I was a Marine?”
“You mentioned it that one time.”
He seemed to ponder that before going on.
“Why did I decide to join the Marine Corps? I don’t know. It seemed like another good idea. Chuck’s father was a Navy man. I suppose that might have influenced his decision, and I went along with it.”
“Where did you fight during the war?”
“We fought everywhere. You throw a dart at a map of the Pacific Ocean, and I s’pose we fought there.”
“Were you married when you enlisted?” Here goes!
“Nope. That came a little later. A gal I met at a USO dance before we shipped out.”
“Was your daughter born after the war?”
“How’d you know about my daughter?”
“You showed me her picture. The little girl with the curly hair.” As if I had to remind him who his daughter was. My mouth was dry and my hands were sweaty, anxiety having taken moisture from one body part and redistributed it to another.
“She was born while I was off fighting.”
He looked so sad I was almost relieved when he ended the “interview.” Almost relieved even though I’d gotten no useful information.
“Hey, I bet that gal is waiting for you,” he said, and I knew my time was up.
>>>
“I need your help, but I can’t tell you why,” I said to Fritzy after I left Pirkle’s house.
“If you can’t tell me why, then why would I help?”
“Why not? I thought we were friends.”
“I like to know what I’m getting into, Wheeler.”
We sat at her kitchen table, glasses of eggnog in front of us. With Thanksgiving just ahead, I even kept a carton of the stuff in my fridge, in case Fritzy ever stopped by. Mom wasn’t big on it.
“It has to do with client confidentiality,” I said. “And if I told you, I’d be breaking the unspoken rule.”
“Pirkle?” she asked, one eyebrow shooting up.
“Client confidentiality,” I repeated.
“If it’s an unspoken rule, then it doesn’t really exist. Besides, I’m almost pa
rt of your business, with our agreement about Liza and all.”
“I guess.” I wiped away my eggnog moustache with a paper towel. “I guess you’re kind of an employee in a way.”
“Employee? More like I’m like a part owner.”
“Part owner? Excuse me? Just because you brought in a piece of business, which by the way I paid you for . . .”
“And I’m on call if you ever can’t get to Liza.”
“And also by the way, you said you were going to take her for a drive.”
“Which I did last weekend. And you said you were going to hook her up with the Senior Center.”
“She didn’t want to go. Mrs. Dickinson had it all arranged, but the day she was supposed to go, she called and told me it wasn’t her thing—hanging around a bunch of old people.”
“A bunch of old people? What does she think she is? She’d rather be alone with her once-a-day phone calls to you? That’s pathetic.”
“I put a lot of effort into those calls. She looks forward to them.”
“Anyway, what’s the big secret, Wheeler? Enough with the bullshit. Spill it.”
And I did.
The little girl in the picture with the curly hair. The nighttime phone calls, one of which Fritzy had been present for. The so-called burglary, if it was even that. The confusion about what house he was in. The combat boots and underwear. Mom’s unofficial diagnosis of dementia. The girl in the window of his neighbor’s house. I felt disloyal for revealing the information, but I trusted Fritzy to keep it to herself. She wasn’t a gossiper.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said when it was over. “You’re bound by client confidentiality too.”
“Don’t worry. What do you take me for?”
“I’m not worried. Just needed to say that. So we’re good with everything, right?”
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked. “Are you going to turn him in?”
Going Places Page 11