Estate of Mind Page 8

  “Go ahead, try and alienate me, too, but it isn’t going to work. Mark my words, dear, someday you’re going to regret speaking to your dear old mother this way.”

  I dropped my fork so that it clattered loudly on my plate. “Maybe you’ll regret all the hurtful things you’ve said to me. I bet Gilbert Sweeny’s mother regrets a few things she said to her son.”

  Mama shook her head passionately. “Adele’s stepson doted on her.”

  “Maybe Adele Sweeny is easy to dote on,” I said wickedly. “Maybe she’s a sweet old lady.”

  Mama gasped. “And I’m not? Is that what you’re saying? Well, Abby, if that’s how you feel, then march on over to Pine Manor and say hello to your new mama.” She stood. “I guess it’s just as well you cast me aside like last year’s fashion statement; I’ll soon be in Africa anyway.”

  I stood as well. “Have a nice trip.”

  10

  I drove straight to Pine Manor, which sits all by itself in the middle of a cotton field ten miles south of Rock Hill. A single Bradford pear stands as a lone sentinel on a sunburned fescue lawn. There isn’t a pine tree in sight.

  Part of me made the drive to spite Mama, and part of me because I really did want to see Adele Sweeny. There were a few questions that had been popping up in my mind that needed asking—although I realized this was not the appropriate time. Still, it never hurts to comfort the bereaved.

  Pine Manor is one of the smallest nursing homes I know of, with only about a dozen residents, but that hardly explained the fact that there were only two vehicles in the parking lot. One was a car with the South Carolina license plate that read PINKY; the other, a van with a North Carolina plate that read TRAP. No doubt the latter was an exterminator.

  I parked my car in what little shade the pear tree offered, and scurried up the short concrete walk. By the time I stepped inside the front door, I was dripping like a freshly halved watermelon. But I wasn’t sweating, mind you. As a proper southern lady, born and bred, I never sweat. I merely dew. At any rate, the climate inside the nursing home was a blessed relief.

  One enters this giant refrigerator through its main room, half of which serves as a lounge, the other half as a dining area. Behind a pair of scarred wooden doors adjacent to the dining area, I could hear the timpani of pots and pans. No doubt Pinky was in the kitchen, busily tidying things up after lunch.

  Pine Manor lacks a reception desk, so I headed straight to the lounge where three tiny ladies sat huddled together under an orange-and-black afghan on a blue-flowered sofa. A large-screen television set was on, and I was surprised to see that they appeared to be watching All My Children and not some religious channel on which televangelists begged for money. The volume, however, was turned all the way down.

  On second thought, perhaps they weren’t even watching TV but staring in horror at the ghastly paintings that cluttered the walls of the room. They were the kind of thing one finds at “starving artist” sales: paintings so hideous and poorly executed that one can’t help but wish the artists would hurry up and starve, to put us out of our misery. Compared to this collection of clunkers, Greg’s faux Gogh looked positively gorgeous.

  I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, dears. Could you tell me where to find Adele Sweeny?”

  Only one pair of ancient eyes turned my way. “What day is it? Do you know?”

  “It’s Thursday, ma’am.”

  “Do you like my afghan?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “My sister made this for me. She went down on the Titanic, you know.”

  “How fascinating. But that was such a long time ago.”

  Perhaps she heard disbelief in my voice. “I’m eighty-nine. My sister was fourteen years older than I. What day is it?”

  “It’s Thursday,” I said patiently. Truth be told, I was skeptical, but not about the dates. It was the polyester afghan I questioned.

  “My sister’s name was Sarah. She wasn’t much bigger than a bird. Sang like one, too, they say. She was a professional singer, you know. She sang at President Coolidge’s inauguration.”

  I bit my tongue. John Calvin Coolidge was elected president more than a decade after Titanic sank.

  “You should have heard the applause afterward. They say it could be heard all the way to Georgetown.”

  “Isn’t that Erica Kane something,” I said to keep my tongue busy. “All those marriages, and she still hasn’t learned a thing.”

  “Don’t watch the show myself,” she said and looked away.

  “It’s on now.”

  “Yes, but I’m not watching it.”

  “Ah, so you’re just keeping your friends company.” So far the other two women hadn’t said a word.

  “They’re not watching it, either.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re asleep.”

  I leaned forward and stared rudely at her companions. “But their eyes are open.”

  “That’s ’cause it’s too much trouble to close them.”

  “You’re serious?” I was beginning to panic. Perhaps her friends were really dead.

  “It’s too much trouble for them to close their eyes. When you get to be our age, you’ll see. A whole lot of things are too much trouble.”

  I was about to reach for the pulse of the nearest possible corpse when the woman blinked and coughed twice, before resuming her comatose state.

  “You see? Margaret’s just sleeping.”

  I shivered. “It’s so cold in here. How can anyone sleep?”

  “My son always says the same thing, but you get used to it.” Five talons emerged from beneath the afghan to finger the left sleeve of a blue chenille bathrobe. “Gilbert gave me this robe the last time he was here. It’s real pretty, isn’t it? See, it matches my slippers.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Gilbert is your son?” My head buzzed. In a facility this small, what were the odds that more than one woman had a son by that name? Surely this woman wasn’t the abusive stepmother Adele Sweeny! I mean, I’m not entirely naive, but I couldn’t imagine this mere sprite of a woman whipping even butter with a coat hanger.

  “Gilbert Sweeny,” she said proudly. “He’s my stepson, but I love him as if he were my own. He lives in Rock Hill. Do you know him?”

  “Well…uh—ma’am, have you had any visitors today?”

  “Gilbert visits me on Sunday. This isn’t Sunday, is it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Of course, not every Sunday—my Gilbert is a very busy man.” She sighed, and something in her throat rattled. “I have a daughter, too, you know. Hortense Simms. She’s even busier than Gilbert, I reckon. I haven’t seen Hortense since—what month is it, anyway?”

  “July.”

  “Ah. Well, I think Hortense was here at Christmas. But you know, that could have been Gilbert’s ex-wife. Never did like the woman, so I can’t remember her name.”

  I knelt beside her and put a hand lightly on her forearm. Even through the thick bathrobe it felt like a bone.

  “Mrs. Sweeny, did you receive any phone calls today?”

  “What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “No, no phone calls.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m positive. If Gilbert doesn’t come, he calls, you see. But that’s only on Sundays. This isn’t Sunday, is it?”

  “No, ma’am,” I stood up. I couldn’t believe no one had told Adele Sweeny that her only son was dead. Then again, maybe someone had, and she had forgotten.

  I said a nervous good-bye and was about to beat a hasty retreat to the door when I noticed the skinny man in baggy overalls. Just for the record, he had the largest ears I’d ever seen on a human being, Prince Charles aside. Not that I’ve seen the prince in person, mind you. But I’ve seen enough photographs to know that if the wind ever hits Windsor from just the right direction, England’s next king will become airborne.

  “Sir,” I said to the big-eared, baggy-clothed stranger, “are you the maintenance man?”


  He couldn’t have been more than twenty feet away, standing in a doorway that presumably led to the sleeping rooms, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Perhaps those weren’t ears after all, but mini air conditioners.

  “Excuse me, sir. Would you mind turning down the air-conditioning in here? It’s freezing.”

  The stranger stared, immobile and mute. Perhaps he was a foreigner—not that there is anything wrong with that. I’m all for hiring foreigners, even folks from Michigan. I walked toward him with a big smile.

  “Cold,” I shouted when I was within a few feet. “Very cold. You turn off air conditioner, okay?”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said and bolted for the front door. I watched dumbfounded as he practically ran to the van with the TRAP license plate and then, with a squeal of tires and a spray of gravel, disappeared down the road.

  I returned to Adele Sweeny. “Who was that man?”

  “What man?”

  “Mickey Mouse. Or Trap, or whatever his name is. You know, the guy who was just here.”

  “That wasn’t my stepson Gilbert, was it?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  She nodded and gazed silently at the TV for a moment. “What day is it?”

  “Thursday, ma’am.”

  “Ain’t no use telling her nothing.”

  I wheeled and found myself looking up into the face of a tall young woman in a white uniform that consisted of smock, pants, and shoes with soles thick as mattresses. The amazon had the shoulders of a linebacker, the stomach of a beer drinker, and a derrière so large that one could host a small family picnic on it.

  “She don’t remember a thing you tell her. Short-term memory is shot to hell.”

  I looked helplessly to Adele, who looked away. Her eyes were filled with tears.

  “Just a minute.” I motioned the linebacker to follow me, and, remarkably, she did. We moved into the dining section of the room, hopefully out of earshot of the octogenarian. I have learned from watching nature shows that some birds and reptiles can make themselves seem more formidable by puffing up. I lack both feathers and an air bladder, but I put my hands on my hips, elbows akimbo. This gesture didn’t increase my height in any way, but it made me wider, perhaps someone to reckon with. “How dare you speak like that in front of her?”

  The linebacker looked taken aback. “Didn’t mean anything by it, ma’am. Honest. She your mama?”

  “Not hardly. My mama is a lot younger than that. And why hasn’t anyone told her that her son is dead?”

  “Ain’t nobody told me, that’s why.”

  “Where’s the person in charge?”

  “That be me, ma’am.”

  “And just who are you?”

  “My name is Pinky Baxter. I work here.”

  “My name is Abigail Timberlake. Are you a nurse?”

  Pinky smiled, revealing that somehow in her short life she had managed to lose an eyetooth. “I ain’t no nurse. Nurse comes in the mornings for an hour. I just take care of these ladies.”

  My hands slipped to my sides. “You’re here by yourself?”

  “Until six. Then the night shift takes over.”

  “I see. Well, who was that man who was just here?”

  “Don’t know. Folks come and go all the time—well, mostly they don’t come at all. This here ain’t no regular nursing home. This here is what they call assisted living, but it’s what I call a CBB. Anyway, I was in the kitchen. I didn’t see no one.”

  “What, pray tell, is a CBB?”

  “Can’t be bothered. Rich folks drop their mamas off here when they can’t be bothered no more. They ain’t sick—least they ain’t supposed to be—they’re just in the way. Take Miss Adele there. I didn’t even know she had a son. Ain’t nobody been to see her as long as I can remember, except for the Reverend.”

  “How about a daughter?”

  “Ain’t seen one of them, either. Knew she had a child someplace, though. That’s why I figured it might be you.”

  “We aren’t related at all.”

  “Now, don’t be getting me wrong, Miss Timberlake. I care about my ladies. They is well treated.”

  I smiled benignly. “I’m sure you’re right, dear.”

  I tried to imagine Mama in a place like that. Then I tried to imagine Mama living with me and needing constant supervision. Sure, it was cold in Pine Manor—but the floor was immaculate, and there were no unpleasant smells.

  “How many people live here?”

  “Just six right now. All women.”

  “Where are the rest?”

  She glanced at the sofa. “Let’s see…Miss Gerdy always naps right after lunch. Miss Lottie—well, sometimes I think she lives in the bathroom. Now, Miss Alma Lou—she could be doing just about anything. Likes to get into other people’s things sometimes—excuse me, ma’am.” She turned and trotted down a short corridor, her enormous buttocks bringing up the rear like a proper caboose.

  While I waited, I walked over to the thermostat on the dining room wall. Seventy-five degrees. Not too bad. No doubt the heavy layer of dew I wore in had made it seem colder. Mama kept her thermostat at seventy-five in the summer, didn’t she?

  “Miss Timberlake!”

  I wheeled. “I didn’t touch it.”

  “It ain’t that, ma’am. It’s Miss Alma Lou. She’s missing!”

  11

  “Is there a back door?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but we keep it locked. I know it’s against the fire code, but some of the ladies—Alma Lou in particular—tend to wander. It’s locked now.”

  “Well, maybe she slipped out the front door when I—”

  “Help! Help!” They were muffled cries and seemed to be coming from down the corridor.

  “Miss Alma Lou!” Despite her girth, Pinky could really move—but, to be honest, she had a little trouble turning the corner. Two-thirds of her turned to the left, but her derrière kept going straight. As a result, she nearly fell.

  “You need antilock brakes, dear,” I said between gasps.

  “Help!” The pitiful cry went up again.

  Pinky staggered but kept on her feet. “Them cries is coming from Miss Adele’s room.”

  We charged down the hall, Pinky leading the way. Thankfully, it was a straight shot to Adele’s room with only one tricky turn left: the doorway. A quick learner, Pinky applied the brakes well before the door. I, who do not claim to have quick reflexes, plowed right into her, knocking her down. For me, it was a soft landing.

  “Pinky, you all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She got to her feet, refusing my hand. “But I don’t see no Miss Alma Lou.”

  “Is that the bathroom?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pinky hobbled over and peered inside. “Ain’t nobody here neither.”

  “Help!”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. The cry was coming from behind a small door right beside me, a door that clearly belonged to a closet.

  Pinky jerked the door open with a grunt. “Miss Alma Lou!”

  “It’s about time, child!”

  I stared at a pixie of a woman. She could be me forty years down the line. Sure, her sparse hair was white as powdered sugar and her skin had more wrinkles than a day-old pizza, but Alma Lou’s eyes sparkled with life. Her nose, however, was nothing like mine. Alma Lou had a nose like an Idaho potato, eyes and all, but one that had been stuck on her face willy-nilly, with no regard to placement. On closer inspection, I decided the unusual facial arrangement was due to a lack of teeth. Alma Lou was clearly not wearing her dentures.

  “What are you looking at, child?”

  I looked away. “Nothing, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be impertinent, child. What’s your name?”

  “Abigail Timberlake.”

  “Timberlake…don’t recognize that name. Who’s your people?”

  “Wiggins. Mozella Wiggins is my mama.”

  “Ah, Wiggins. Decent people. Not the best, but okay as it g
oes.”

  I gasped. “Excuse me?”

  Pinky laughed. “Forgot to tell you, Miss Timberlake. Miss Alma here don’t hold nothing back.”

  “Must be a Yankee somewhere in her woodpile,” I muttered. I don’t feel that way, honest. Chalk it up to stress and Wynnell’s bad influence.

  “Yankee?” Miss Alma was so livid, her enhanced color eclipsed her liver spots. “My granddaddy fought under General Braxton Bragg in Chattanooga! He died on Missionary Ridge!”

  “My granddaddy died in World War I, but I don’t hide in closets.”

  Alma Lou sputtered like a campfire in a drizzle.

  Pinky clapped her hands once to get our attention. “Miss Alma, what you doing in the closet?”

  “If you must know, I was looking for my teeth.”

  “And what your teeth be doing in Miss Adele’s closet?”

  “I was eating my apple from lunch. I can’t be eating an apple without my teeth, can I?”

  Pinky sighed. “And what your apple be doing in Miss Adele’s closet?”

  “Because I took it there, that’s why. I’ll be ninety years old next month. Do I have to explain everything I do?”

  “If you’re doing it in Miss Adele’s closet, you do.”

  I shook my head. “Ninety years old and still in the closet.”

  Alma Lou’s head jerked forward. “What was that, child? Because, for your information, the door locked on me.”

  Pinky shook her head. “This here closet don’t even have a lock. Now, Miss Alma Lou, you come on out of there.”

  Alma Lou glared at me. “What’s she doing here?”

  “None of your business,” I mouthed.

  Alma Lou spread her little legs and with withered brown arms braced herself in the closet door. “I’ll stay here just as long as I please.”

  Pinky crossed her arms. “Fine. You just stay where you is. I’ll go get your sheets and pillows. You and Miss Adele can be roommates.”

  Alma Lou looked from me to Pinky and back to me. “You’re with him, aren’t you?”

  “With whom, dear?”

  “With that man with the big ears!”