Myron took a deep breath. Settle, boy, settle.
The place had a heavy cherry smell like one of those dangling tree-shaped car fresheners. A woman dressed in slacks and a blouse – what you’d call «nice casual» -greeted him. She was in her early thirties and smiled with the genuine warmth of a Stepford Wife.
«I’m here to see Deborah Whittaker.»
«Of course,» she said. «I think Deborah is in the rec room. I’m Gayle. I’ll take you.»
Deborah. Gayle. Everyone was a first name. There was probably a Dr. Bob on the premises. They headed down a corridor lined with festive murals. The floors sparkled, but Myron could still make out fresh wheelchair streaks. Everyone on staff had the same fake smile. Part of the training, Myron supposed. All of them -orderlies, nurses, whatever – were dressed in civilian clothes. No one wore a stethoscope or beeper or name tag or anything that implied anything medical. All buddies here at Inglemoore.
Gayle and Myron entered the rec room. Unused Ping-Pong tables. Unused pool tables. Unused card tables. Oft-used television.
«Please sit down,» Gayle said. «Becky and Deborah will be with you momentarily.»
«Becky?» Myron asked.
Again the smile. «Becky is Deborah’s friend.»
«I see.»
Myron was left alone with six old people, five of whom were women. No sexism in longevity. They were neatly attired, the sole man in a tie even, and all were in wheelchairs. Two of them had the shakes. Two were mumbling to themselves. They all had skin a color closer to washed-out gray than any flesh tone. One woman waved at Myron with a bony, blue-lined hand. Myron smiled and waved back.
Several signs on the wall had the Inglemoore slogan:
INGLEMOORE – NO DAY LIKE TODAY.
Nice, Myron guessed, but he couldn’t help but think up a more appropriate one:
INGLEMOORE – BETTER THAN THE ALTERNATIVE.
Hmm. He’d drop it in the suggestion box on the way out.
«Mr. Bolitar?»
Deborah Whittaker shuffled into the room. She still had Le Helmet de Hair from the newspaper portrait -black as shoe polish and shellacked on until it resembled fiberglass – but the overall effect was still like something out of Dorian Gray, as though she had aged a zillion years in one fell swoop. Her eyes had that soldier’s thousand-yard stare. She had a bit of a shake in her face that reminded him of Katharine Hepburn. Parkinson’s maybe, but he was no expert.
Her «friend» Becky had been the one who called his name. Becky was maybe thirty years old. She too was dressed in civilian clothes rather than whites, and while nothing about her appearance suggested nursing, Myron still thought of Louise Fletcher in One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
He stood.
«I’m Becky,» the nurse said.
«Myron Bolitar.»
Becky shook his hand and offered him a patronizing smile. Probably couldn’t help it. Probably couldn’t smile genuinely until she was out of here for at least an hour. «Do you mind if I join you two?»
Deborah Whittaker spoke for the first time. «Go away,» she rasped. Her voice sounded like a worn tire on a gravel road.
«Now, Deborah-»
«Don’t "now Deborah" me. I got myself a handsome gentleman caller, and I’m not sharing him. So buzz off.»
Becky’s patronizing smile turned a bit uncertain. «Deborah,» she said in a tone that aimed for amiable but landed smack on, well, patronizing, «do you know where we are?»
«Of course,» Deborah snapped. «The Allies just bombed Munich. The Axis has surrendered. I’m a USO girl standing by the south pier in Manhattan. The ocean breeze hits my face. I wait for the sailors to arrive so I can lay a big, wet kiss on the first guy off the boat.»
Deborah Whittaker winked at Myron.
Becky said, «Deborah, it’s not 1945. It’s-»
«I know, dammit. For crying out loud, Becky, don’t be so damn gullible.» She sat down and leaned toward Myron. «Truth is, I go in and out. Sometimes I’m here. Sometimes I time travel. When my grandpa had it, they called it hardening of the arteries. When my mother had it, they called it senility. With me, it’s Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.» She looked at her nurse, her facial muscles still doing the quivers. «Please, Becky, while I’m still lucid, get the hell out of my face.»
Becky waited a second, holding the uncertain smile as best she could. Myron nodded at her, and she moved away.
. Deborah Whittaker leaned a little closer. «I love getting ornery with her,» she whispered. «It’s the only fringe benefit of old age.» She put her hands on her lap and managed a shaky smile. «Now I know you just told me, but I forgot your name.»
«Myron.»
She looked puzzled. «No, that’s not it. Andre maybe? You look like Andre. He used to do my hair.»
Becky kept a watchful eye on the corner. At the ready.
Myron decided to dive right in. «Mrs. Whittaker, I wanted to ask you about Elizabeth Bradford.»
«Lizzy?» The eyes flared up and settled into a glisten. «Is she here?»
«No, ma’am.»
«I thought she died.»
«She did.»
«Poor thing. She threw such wonderful parties. At Bradford Farm. They’d string lights across the porch. They’d have hundreds of people. Lizzy always had the best band, the best caterer. I had such fun at her parties. I used to dress up and…» A flicker hit Deborah Whittaker’s eyes, a realization perhaps that the parties and invitations would never come again, and she stopped speaking.
«In your column,» Myron said, «you used to write about Elizabeth Bradford.»
«Oh, of course.» She waved a hand. «Lizzy made good copy. She was a social force. But-» She stopped again and looked off.
«But what?»
«Well, I haven’t written about Lizzy in months. Strange really. Last week Constance Lawrence had a charity ball for the St. Sebastian’s Children’s Care, and Lizzy wasn’t there again. And that used to be Lizzy’s favorite event. She ran it the past four years, you know.»
Myron nodded, trying to keep up with the changing eras. «But Lizzy doesn’t go to parties anymore, does she?»
«No, she doesn’t.»
«Why not?»
Deborah Whittaker sort of half startled. She eyed him suspiciously. «What’s your name again?»
«Myron.»
«I know that. You just told me. I mean, your last name.»
«Bolitar.»
Another spark. «Ellen’s boy?»
«Yes, that’s right.»
«Ellen Bolitar,» she said with a spreading smile. «How’s she doing?»
«She’s doing well.»
«Such a shrewd woman. Tell me, Myron. Is she still ripping apart opposing witnesses?»
«Yes, ma’am.»
«So shrewd.»
«She loved your column,» Myron said.
Her face beamed. «Ellen Bolitar, the attorney, reads my column?»
«Every week. It was the first thing she read.»
Deborah Whittaker settled back, shaking her head. «How do you like that? Ellen Bolitar reads my column.» She smiled at Myron. Myron was getting confused by the verb tenses. Bouncing in time. He’d just have to try to stay with her. «We’re having such a nice visit, aren’t we, Myron?»
«Yes, ma’am, we are.»
Her smile quivered and faded. «Nobody in here remembers my column,» she said. «They’re all very nice and sweet. They treat me well. But I’m just another old lady to them. You reach an age, and suddenly you become invisible. They only see this rotting shell. They don’t realize that this mind inside used to be sharp, that this body used to go to the fanciest parties and dance with the handsomest men. They don’t see that. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I remember those parties. Do you think that’s strange?»
Myron shook his head. «No, ma’am, I don’t.»
«I remember Lizzy’s final soiree like it was last night. She wore a black, strapless Halston with white pearls. She was tan and lovely. I wore a bright pink summer dress. A Lilly Pulitzer, as a matter of fact, and let me tell you, I was still turning heads.»