As the two women moved on down the hall to his right, toward what seemed to be offices, Adelina paused, turned briefly to survey them-as if hoping they had somehow vanished.
From Wilma's shoulder, Dulcie stared back at her, green eyes blazing as if she were reading Adelina's thoughts, and taking in the woman's sleek hair and slim expensive attire, her shapely legs and sheer black stockings, her spike heels sharp enough to puncture a cat's throat.
It was Dulcie who glanced away.
This was the woman who could afford a three-hundred-thousand-dollar Bentley Azure but who presumably spent her days among bedpans counting soiled sheets and inspecting medication charts. A woman who had to be driven totally by love for humanity; why else would she do this? The woman who, Clyde had told him, supervised every detail of the retirement villa like an army general. As she disappeared into an office, Joe shivered, and he, too, looked away.
11
To Joe's right, where Adelina Prior had disappeared, the admitting desk dominated a portion of the villa that was less fancy and smelled strongly of various medicines, of human bodily functions, and of a harsh disinfectant that made his nose burn. A nurse stood before the admitting counter writing on a clipboard, stopping frequently to push back a lock of bleached hair. A wheeled cart loaded with medicine bottles and various pieces of equipment that he didn't recognize and with which he didn't care to become familiar was parked beside the high desk.
The walls were plain and unadorned, the carpet of a dark commercial tweed that looked as durable as concrete. He supposed that on around the corner the hall would lead away between rows of residents' rooms, rather like a hospital on TV. He imagined open doors revealing stark hospital beds and various uncomfortable-looking contrivances constructed of plastic and chrome, and perhaps an occasional closed door behind which a patient was indisposed or sleeping in the middle of the day. From that direction came a tangle of excited television voices, a mix of daytime soaps.
Their group did not approach the admitting desk but headed in the opposite direction, down the hall to the left, where a pair of double doors stood open revealing a shabby sitting room very different from the elegant reception parlor.
In the open double doors, Bonnie Dorriss paused, waiting for them to assemble, the big poodle sitting sedately at her heel in what was beginning to be, in Joe's opinion, an excessive display of overtraining. Did the animal have no mind of his own? But then what could you expect from a dog?
He heard a phone ring behind them, probably at the admitting desk, and in a moment it went silent. He wriggled around on Dillon's shoulder to get a better view of the social room. The decor was early Salvation Army. Mismatched couches and chairs in faded, divergent patterns, a pastiche of varied colors and styles stood about in vague little groups. The multicolored carpeting was of a variety guaranteed to hide any possible stain. Probably only a cat's or a dog's keen nose would detect the spills of cough syrup, oatmeal, and worse embedded in that short, tight weave. Surveying the room, Joe got the impression that when prospective clients were welcomed to Casa Capri to discuss the placement of an elderly relative, these sliding doors were kept closed.
An arrangement of several couches faced an oversize television set, and next to it a weekly TV schedule done up in large print had been taped to the wall. The other seating groups circled scarred coffee tables piled with wrinkled magazines and folded newspapers. There were no fancy potted trees or elegant little touches such as graced the entry and parlor. And the pictures on these walls were dull reproductions of dull photographs of dull landscapes from some incredibly tedious part of the world-the kind of cheap reproductions the local drugstore published for its giveaway Christmas calendar. A pair of lost eyeglasses lay under a coffee table, and a lone slipper peeked out from beneath a couch, implying that the room had not been recently vacuumed.
The few old people who were already in attendance, scattered about in the soft chairs, seemed to have dozed off. They were settled so completely into the faded furniture that occupant and chair might have been together for decades, growing worn and shabby as one entity.
The focal points of the room, besides the TV, were a set of wide glass doors leading out to the inner patio and, at the opposite side of the room, through an arch, the dining room, its tables laid with white cloths, its wide windows looking out through decorative wrought iron to the drive, the fountain, and the gardens beyond. A pair of swinging doors led to the kitchen, from which wafted the pervasive scent of boiled beef and onions. But it was not the kitchen that drew Joe. He looked away longingly toward the sunny patio, where, it seemed, freedom beckoned.
Off to the left of the patio doors, a second long hall led away. The two long wings, separated by the patio, were joined far at the back by a third line of rooms, completing the enclosure of that garden. Glass doors led from each bedroom into the sunny retreat.
As they entered the social room one of their group, a tiny fluff of dog, whined with eagerness. Immediately the dozing old folks stirred. Rheumy eyes flew open, little cries of pleasure escaped as the residents saw their visitors. A waxen-faced old man grinned widely and hoisted himself up from a deep recline, his faded eyes lighting like a lamp blazing.
Dillon's response was surprising. Squeezing Joe absently, hardly aware of him, her body went rigid as she studied the approaching residents.
As patients rose from the deep chairs, others straggled in from the far hall, some led by nurses, some wheeling their chairs energetically along or hobbling in their walkers, converging toward the Pet-a-Pet group moving in slow motion but as eagerly as if drawn forward by a magnetic force.
The animals' responses were more varied. While the little dogs wiggled and whined, hungering for the lavish attention without which, Joe was convinced, the miniature breeds would wither and die, and while the golden retriever, grinning and tugging at his lead, plunged ahead toward his geriatric friends, the cats were sensibly restrained, waiting circumspectly for further developments.
Bonnie Dorriss's poodle remained sitting at heel in an attitude of total dullsville. This was why cats were not given obedience lessons-no cat would put up with this smarmy routine.
But suddenly the poodle stiffened. His short tail began to wag as a wheelchair approached bearing a thin, white-haired woman. His mouth opened in a huge laugh. Sitting at heel, he wiggled all over.
Bonnie spoke a single word. The poodle leaped away, straight at the wheelchair, and stood on his hind legs, prancing like a circus dog around it, reaching his nose to lick the woman's face. His front paws didn't touch the chair until the white-haired woman pulled him to her for a hug.
Within minutes, the pair had whisked away out the front door, the dog pulling the wheeled chair along as the woman held his harness, the two of them heading for some private and privileged freedom.
And now their little group began to disperse as each animal was settled with an old person. And the assorted cats surprised Joe, settling in calmly with one patient or another, relaxed and open and loving. Joe watched them with uneasy interest. It appeared that each cat knew why it was there, and each seemed to value the experience. For a moment, the simpler beasts shamed him.
Dulcie had coached him endlessly about his own deportment. Don't flinch at loud noises, Joe. Don't lay back your ears even if they pinch you, and for heaven's sake don't hiss at anyone. Keep your claws in. Stay limp. Close your eyes and purr. Just play it cool. Don't snarl. Think about how much you're helping some lonely old person. If you don't pass the test, if you fail, think how ashamed you'll be.