Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe (6 page)

For several days after my phone conversation with Helen Simpson, I mulled over how to carry out my mission: to find out what the hell was it with the Assisted Living facility. I knew I was just putting off as long as possible my confrontation with Fredricka, the Nazi, and the person who presumably had her on a leash, Kurt Berman, the facility’s administrator.

First, I would try the direct approach. I‘d phone to find out when I could visit the
Rogers
again. No, damn it, no pussyfooting around. I’d tell whoever answered that I was coming over and they’d better open the door to the facility or I’d get a battering ram.

That’s me, Fearless Fosdick. I was getting so worked up I had to take two blood pressure pills to calm me down.

Then I picked up the phone.

The person who answered, sounded like Fredricka, greeted me effusively. Her opening words were, “What do you want?”

I said, “And hello to you, too.”

There was silence from her end.

“Hello,” I said. “Are you still there?”

She said, “I’m waiting for an answer to my question. What do you want?”

What I
really
wanted was to shove a firecracker up her fat ass. But I said, “Please, I’d like to make an appointment to visit the
Rogers
. That is, if it’s convenient.” That’s telling her, right? Pussy Fosdick.

“You are who again?”

“Henry Callins, 1087.” My apartment number.

I heard some rustling of papers. Then, “I can squeeze you in at 3:15.”

“Today?”

“No, next Christmas. Of course today.” Unsaid was “You moron.”

“Thank you, thank you,” I said. If I sounded grateful, I was. In fact, I could hardly believe it had been that easy. Had I been mistaken, and falsely assumed there was something mysterious and ominous going on in Assisted Living? Obviously, my trepidation was a figment of my imagination. More proof, if I needed any, that I was a chronic worrier. I saw demons under the bed when there were only dust balls.

I was at the door to the
Care
Center
and Assisted Living at 3:15. Sharp. As before, the door cracked open on the dot and Freddie (no more Fredricka now that we were pals) gestured for me to come in.

We rode the elevator up to the Assisted Living floor. I followed her down the silent, spotless corridor, her rubber-soled shoes quietly hissing, while my footsteps embarrassingly clopped.

To her back, I said. “This place is certainly quiet.” Showing her how observant I was.

When there was no comment from her, I went on. “Are these apartments filled or vacant?”

She half turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Mostly.”

Mostly what? Filled? Or mostly vacant? I hesitated to ask for fear I’d offend her and alienate our friendship.

Like the last time I’d been in the Assisted Living facility, I didn’t see anyone in the corridors. I was sure the
Rogers
were not the only residents here, but where were the others? In their apartments behind the closed doors we passed? Out for some of the activities such as exercise classes or a lecture? I’d have to ask Chet, or Kurt Berman, if I ever got to meet him. I doubt I’d get more than a few words from Fredricka. She was all business.

By this time we had arrived at the door to the
Rogers
’ apartment. As on my last visit, she opened the door without knocking. I thought she was being impolite or presumptuous. What if they’d been on the toilet, or in the shower. But there they were, seated side-by-side on a small sofa, smiling. At least, Christine was smiling. Larry’s lips were drawn to the side, obviously from his facial hemiplegia. Although the room seemed quite warm to me, a blanket was draped over their legs.

I said, “Hi.”

In unison they said, “Hi.” Even Larry’s greeting seemed clearer than it had been. I knew that even before they were transferred to Assisted Living, Larry had been receiving speech therapy. But until now there didn’t seem to be much improvement.

“Living here seems to agree with you, Larry,” I said.

He nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“How about you, Christine? Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing okay.”

I was elated to hear the report. I couldn’t wait to tell their daughter. I said, “The other day I spoke to Helen.”

Christine said, “The other day you spoke to Helen.” A statement, not a question.

“Daughter. Helen.” I didn’t think it needed clarification, but of course, there are more Helens than their daughter.

“Daughter Helen.,” said Christine.

I gazed at the ceiling. Smiled. “There seems to be an echo in here.” Me and my clever lines.

I felt a tugging on my sleeve. I turned to face Freddie.

She tapped her wrist. “Time’s up.”

“It’s only been a few minutes,” I protested.

“I don’t want them tired out.”

I couldn’t see where our conversation was tiring, but who was I to argue with a professional.

Freddie was pulling me out of the door. I said, “Listen, I’ll be back real soon, so you kids behave.”

As Freddie closed the door, I could hear Christine saying something, probably telling me goodbye. But the only word I heard was “behave.”

Before moving to Restful Bowers, Harriet and I lived in a suburb of
San Diego
where our recreation and social life was golf. Our home was along a fairway of a golf course, and we had joined the golf club.

Our golf cart was parked in our garage, and at least three days a week, we’d drive it to the clubhouse, about five blocks away, and tee it up.

Once a week, Harriet played with a group of ladies divided into foursomes, while Wednesday and Friday mornings I had a regular game with a group of other retired men. On weekends, Harriet and I usually made golf dates with another couple. After we’d hacked our way around the course, the four of us would retire to the clubhouse for drinks and dinner.

Since our home was on the course, sometimes in late afternoon of summer we’d take advantage of the long days, wheel our cart to the tee adjacent to our home and play three or four holes until dusk.

One of the last things we did as the moving van with our possessions took off for the Bowers, was to gaze longingly at the neatly mowed fairways and greens, knowing we were leaving a most enjoyable part of our lives.

But not entirely.

Each Monday morning, we could join a group of fellow golf devotees, take one of the Bowers’ buses to a nearby executive course, and play a round. For “executive” read old men and women. And eight-year-old children. An executive course is less than one-third the length of a regulation eighteen-hole golf course.

The first time we ventured out, the golfing group consisted of eight men. No ladies other than Harriet. Not that women were excluded, none of the other women residents played golf.

In the bus, Harriet fidgeted, finally whispered to me, “I’m scared to death. The only woman. The men will either laugh watching me play or resent my horning in on their game.”

I tried to consol her, but without conviction since I didn’t know anything about the players.

Until we got to the first tee.

Harriet was in a foursome with me and two other men. One of the men, Gerry, teed off first. That’s an exaggeration. He took a swing and the ball fell off the tee propelled by the wind his swing generated.

Without embarrassment, Gerry replaced the ball on the tee and announced, “Mulligan.” The term was invented by some hacker when golf was “golfe” to explain that his failed attempt to send the ball on its way was not his fault, and he was entitled to a second try

His Mulliganed drive was at least ten times the length as his first, about .twelve feet.

Harriet’s anxiety started to ease.

Ted was the second to tee off. His drive went sideways and plunked in a lake set at right angles to the fairway. Not even close.

I could hear Harriet’s sigh of relief.

Ted’s Mulligan never got off the ground and bounced about twenty yards down the fairway.

Harriet had trouble suppressing a guffaw.

I got off a fairly decent drive, then Harriet stepped up to the Ladies’ tee. She took a few practice swings and lofted the ball in a drive that ended about one-hundred-fifty yards in the middle of the fairway. Gerry and Ted followed the flight of the ball, amazement registering in their faces.

The four of us reached the green, and Ted, whose ball was farther from the hole than any of the others, stroked his ball off the putting surface. Gerry’s putt grazed the cup and settled about five feet away. He picked up the ball and announced, “In the leather.” This was another term, originally designed to speed up the game, by conceding that the ball was close enough to the hole to consider that another putt was unnecessary. It was safe to assume that it would be holed out. Of course the “leather” referred to the putter’s grip, about eighteen inches long. So Gerry had slightly miscalculated. No big deal.

Five putts after Ted had sent his first putt sailing, he finally got his ball to drop into the cup.

Gerry was keeping our scores. His pencil was poised over the scorecard while he mentally counted his strokes. “Let’s see. I had a five.” I had watched him flailing his way toward the green and counted at least eight strokes before he started putting. If he had a five, I was Arnold Palmer.

Harriet, who couldn’t remember where the door in our apartment was, had not forgotten how to swing a club. She had an honest four, the lowest of any of us.

The rest of the round was a carbon copy of the first hole. Gerry and Ted stumbling along, hitting the ball from one side of the fairway to the other, then keeping their scores with imagination.

Harriet, although not hitting the ball far, was never more than a millimeter from the middle of the fairway. Her putts from anywhere on the green dove into the cup as though drawn to a magnet.

After one of my drives ended up about two feet into the rough, Ted sidled up to me. ”It’s your grip.”

“What about my grip?”

“The reason your ball ended up where it did was because of a faulty grip. Here, let me show you.”

He wrapped his hand around the club so that the face of the club was almost backwards. “This how to grip the club. See the difference. Your grip will impart a lateral trajectory on the ball and…”

I had been gripping golf clubs since I was a twelve-year-old caddie. I had taken lessons from pros from coast to coast. My bookcase was filled with every book on golf ever written. I had a drawer full of videos of my swing as well as those of every great golfer from Bobby Jones to Tiger Woods. Here was this dodo whose swing resembled a defective windmill, his ball frequently in a boomerang path that would hit him in the ass if he didn’t jump out of the way, giving me a lesson on the aerodynamics of the ball in flight. I should have wrapped a three-wood around his neck. Instead, I said, “Gee, thanks. I wondered why my drives always made a beeline for the pin.”

My sarcasm flew miles over his head. He patted my shoulder.

“Sure. Anytime.”

In the bus on the way back to the Bowers, Harriet hummed.

“That was fun. I can’t wait until next Monday.”

Obsessed with curiosity about Assisted Living, I stopped off one day at Chet’s office in the Independent Living building. He was on the phone, but when he saw me, he held up a finger and pointed to a chair in front of his desk. I waited until he finished his phone conversation.

He hung up and leaned across the desk for a handshake. “How you doin’ Henry?”

“I’m on the right side of the grass.” Another of my clever lines.

“Freddie tells me you’ve been over visiting in
AL
again.”

“
AL
?”

“Assisted Living.”

“Yeah. I’ve been visiting Larry and Christine Rogers. They’d been in the apartment next to ours before they moved over.

Chet nodded. “What do you think of the place?”

“I’m impressed. Clean and quiet. In fact, that’s one of the things I want to ask you about. Where is everybody?”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m talking about the AL. Except for the
Rogers
, the place seems empty “

He chuckled. “It’s a long way from empty. There’s only one vacancy.”

“Does everybody just stay in their apartment?”

“’Course not. Most go down to rehab or Tai Chi or to one of the meetings. There’s something going on all the time.”

I suppose I’d have to take his word for it, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. The place just seemed too dead.

 
I said, “I’ve never met or even seen the guy who is the
AL
administrator. Where does he hide?”

“You mean Kurt, Marty Berman’s son. He’s around most of the time. Is there some reason you want to meet him?’

There were a lot of things I wanted to ask him. For one, why was it so hard to get in to visit someone in Assisted Living? Chet had given me some bullshit about the residents’ fragile immune systems. Not exposing them to diseases they might pick up from dirty old men like myself. I couldn’t buy that argument. They’d be more likely to catch something from the people who handle their food, or the housekeepers who clean their apartments.

I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer from Chet so I said, “Nothing specific, but I’ve met the other people who run this place like you and Marty Berman. And of course friendly Fredricka. I’m perfectly happy living unassisted. But who knows? Maybe someday…”

Chet nodded. “Sure, I understand. I’ll set up an appointment to meet him.”

“That would be great. I’m free anytime except when it’s tea and cookies time. Never miss that.”

Two hours later, Chet phoned.

“You wanted to meet Kurt Berman, right?”

What a memory!

“Uh-huh.”

“I made an appointment for you tomorrow at 3 PM. In Kurt’s office.”

“That’s in the Assisted Living building, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Go up the ramp from Independent Living. The door to the
Care
Center
and Assisted Living building is locked, but there’s an intercom on the wall next to it.”

I hadn’t noticed the intercom on my previous visits. I could have saved wear-and-tear on my knuckles. Unless it had been installed since I last visited.

At three o’clock the following afternoon I buzzed the intercom. Mounted high above the door I saw a small surveillance camera. Another innovation? Moments later Chat opened the door. He was wearing tight-fitting khaki shorts and a tee shirt.

Big smile. “Come on in, Henry.”

He grabbed my hand for a handshake.

We rode the elevator up one floor to the Assisted Living section. While we walked down the corridor, I remarked “It’s always so quiet here. Seems strange not to have a lineup of walkers or wheelchairs. Don’t these people get out of their apartments?”

Chet smiled. “You should see it when there’s an activity like. exercise class, or a guest speaker. Man, you’d need a traffic cop.”

“Do they leave the floor?”

“What do you mean?”

Aside from the apartments, I hadn’t seen any rooms that might be used for an exercise class or lecture. I said, “For example, do they go down to the gym or the auditorium in the Independent Living section?”

Chet shook his head. “Most of these folks are in wheelchairs. We’d need an army of aides to transport them. No, we have a large room at the other end of the corridor where most of the activities are carried out.” He pointed to the corridor at right angles to the one we were on. Made sense. I’d never been down that arm of the L.

We’d reached the Administrator’s office. Chet held the door open and I stepped into a small waiting room. At the end was a door that I assumed led to the throne room, the domain of the Assisted Living emperor.

Chet knocked, answered by a muffled “Come.”

Seated behind a desk was man wearing a blue smock with a square jaw, and dark, penetrating eyes. And a scalp devoid of hair. A younger version of Martin Berman. He rose as we entered, smiled and extended his hand. His grip was so firm I heard my knuckles pop.

Chet made the introductions.

Kurt Berman said, “Nice meeting you, Mr.Callins, I’ve heard about you.”

He saw my puzzled expression and continued. “I’ve heard you’ve visited us a couple of times.”

Sounded as though he was kept appraised of any strange bodies invading his territory. I said, “Yes. Larry and Christine Rogers. They’re former neighbors,”

“Lovely couple.”

Chet excused himself. Just as well.

Berman said, “So, how long have you been at the Bowers?”

“About a year.” I hadn’t given it much thought, but it seemed like yesterday that Harriet and I were opening storage boxes and putting things on shelves.

Berman said, “I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”

He was dead right about that, but it wasn’t for my lack of trying. “Management seems to keep a low profile.”

He raised his eyebrows. “.Meaning?”

“Well, I’ve met Chet, of course. And your father.”

He spread his hands. “Now you’ve met management.”

“You mean the three of you…?”

“Sure. We have a good staff. We tell them what to do and they do it. They do a good job, if I might say so. Each department has its supervisor. Why complicate it by adding more layers of executives?”

He had a point. Money was handled by the accountant. Marketing, food and dining, housekeeping had their supervisors. The
Care
Center
had a nursing supervisor. Assisted Living had—wait a minute. “Who supervises this floor?”

Berman looked down at his desktop, then raised his head. “That’s Fredricka Himmler.”

Of course. The Icicle Lady. The Nazi. I said, “Was Reichsfuhrer Heinrich her grandfather?” I quickly added, “A joke.”

Berman gave a forced laugh. “You’ve met her?”

“Uh-huh. Charming lady.”

Berman’s eye twitched. “Yes. Fredricka runs a tight ship.”

If it was any tighter it would strangle. I said, “Does she have any aides? I never see anyone else on the floor.”

Berman straightened some papers on his desktop. “There are servers at mealtime who deliver food trays to the residents. And housekeepers. The orderlies from the
Care
Center
downstairs wheel the residents when they go to various activities. Most of the people in Assisted Living can manage their own toilet care and dress. We have a small staff of aides for those who can’t.”

“I see,” I said. “I guess both times I’ve been here was in between meals and activities.”

Berman nodded, then stood. The interview was over.

We shook hands. I said, “Well it was nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

Suddenly, Chet was at the door. Had he been listening—or was I paranoid?

He said, “I’ll show you out.”

“Oh. I can find the way. You needn’t bother”

He waved a hand. “No bother.” He took my elbow and walked with me. “Did you and Kurt have nice visit?”

“Yeah. He’s—he’s really an administrator.”

If Chet realized what an inane statement that was, he gave no indication.

We rode the elevator down to the door that led to the Independent Living building. At the door, I said, “Chet, is there another way into this place? Every time I’ve come it seems to be a big deal. I’d like to be able to walk in without having to pass the guard dogs.”

His lips tightened. “I think I already explained, it’s management’s policy. Actually, it’s a state regulation. And, no. This is the only entrance.”

“What’s the state have to do with going into an Assisted Living facility?”

“We have a book full of state regulations we have to follow. They’re meant to protect these elderly people. Prevent ‘elder abuse’. If everyone could just walk in who knows what might happen.”

“Yeah. Like I’d walk in with a rubber hose and beat the shit out of these old folks. Or maybe rob them blind while they’re asleep. Come on, Chet. Enough bullshit.”

He put his hands up. “Honest, Henry. These are
California
’s rules, not mine—-or Kurt’s.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I could see there was no use arguing. He parroted the company lines—or lies.

Chet read the skepticism on my face, but shrugged and held the door open for me. He patted my shoulder. “See you around.”

As I walked back to my apartment, I reviewed in my mind what I had learned. Nothing.