These memories still induce in Trudy, as does her nudity, a distinct shame. For Anna has schooled her-by implication, as she would never speak directly of such things-that nice people are not supposed to loiter about in states of undress. Baths should be taken solely for the sake of cleanliness and washcloths always used, to prevent skin touching skin. Once out of the tub, clothes should be donned as quickly as possible. Lovemaking should occur for procreative purposes only and always in the dark, and one's female functions must be referred to only when necessary, for medical reasons, and then in code: The Monthly Visitor. The Curse. The Change. It is a messy, humiliating, secretive business, this being a woman. Slippery creams and sanitary pads, rituals conducted in closets and behind bathroom doors and never, God forbid, mentioned in front of one's husband. Trudy can't imagine Anna ever lingering before a mirror for this length of time. Or letting anyone else see her nude. The shame of it.
The shame of it, the women and the children naked with the men, I had never seen such a thing.
Trudy looks at herself and tries to imagine her various imperfections exposed in broad daylight, in front of all those others. Those men. But of course, Trudy would not have been in this position. She would have been safely home in the village with the rest of the Germans, moving quietly behind shuttered windows and locked doors.
A mottled flush rises on her chest and neck, on skin already pink from vigorous scrubbing.
Her pale flesh. Her father's flesh. Her milk-white, translucent, Aryan skin.
Trudy makes a little noise in her throat.
Then from down the hall the phone shrills, and Trudy starts and grabs her robe. God in heaven, what is she doing, standing around staring at herself? She is even more unraveled than she thought. Trudy pictures Anna's reaction to this foolishness, and then Ruth's, and then her students', and she is still smiling over this last as she runs toward her bedroom, leaving evaporating footprints.
She scoops up the receiver on the fifth ring; it is probably Rose-Grete, whom Trudy has asked to call and check in if the aftermath of her interview proves traumatic.
Hello, says Trudy, shrugging on her bathrobe. Rose-Grete? How are you doing?
But it is not Rose-Grete. It is Ancy Heligson, the manager from the New Heidelburg Good Samaritan Center. She ignores small-town pleasantries and gets straight to the point, speaking with urgency. And to Trudy, cinching her robe tight as if the woman were in the room and could see her, it seems as though what is happening is her fault, as if she has somehow conjured Anna up merely by thinking of her. Or is being punished for having disobeyed Anna's dictates about modesty. For the manager's news is not good. Listening, Trudy leans against the bureau for support. She closes her eyes.
28
AND SO IT IS THAT THE NEXT MORNING, A SUNDAY WHILE most good Minnesotans are in church, Trudy is making another pilgrimage to the New Heidelburg Good Samaritan Center. She arrives at the nursing home in record time and parks beneath the billboard on the far side of its lot. LET US ALL REMEMBER THE AGED, it commands. YES, EVEN YOU ARE GETTING OLD!!! Normally Trudy can't help a wry smile at this; it is as though the staff wants to ensure that visiting a loved one here is as depressing an experience as possible. But at the moment she is in no mood to find anything funny.
Trudy bursts through the sliding doors at a near-run, the tails of her black wool coat belling behind her, and skids across the slick linoleum to the reception desk.
Excuse me, she says to the aide behind it. I'm here to see Mrs. Heligson.
The aide, who is on the phone, shows no sign of interrupting her conversation. Trudy draws herself up to her full height and gives the girl her most imperious look, the one she uses in class to quell obstreperous students. This has little effect. The aide, who is about the same age as Trudy's pupils, with a sweet, puddingy face, flashes her an apologetic smile but keeps on talking.
Trudy leans over the desk and joggles the phone's cutoff button.
Hey! the aide says, her mouth dropping open in protest. Then her nail-bitten hand flies to cover it.
Oh, Mrs. Swenson, I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you-
Get Mrs. Heligson, says Trudy. Right. Now.
The aide jumps up.
Sure. You bet.
She backs toward a door bearing a plaque marked MANAGER and bolts inside. Through the thin plywood Trudy hears the aide's high excited voice and Mrs. Heligson's lower, slower responses. Trudy waits, breathing shallowly through her mouth to avoid taking in too much of the Center's smell of Lysol and urine and bland mashed food. The Center's more ambulatory residents are here, slipping sideways on mismatched couches or locked into wheelchairs behind metal trays. Under ordinary circumstances, Anna, more compos mentis than these poor husks, would be among them, picking at her lunch or staring with a faded lack of interest through the picture window at the two-lane road. But she is nowhere to be seen.
Eventually the door to the manager's office flies open and Mrs. Heligson hurries out. The aide, trailing behind her, resumes her position behind the desk and begins dividing pills into Dixie cups with a vindicated, businesslike air. This doesn't fool Trudy for a second. She knows the girl will be straining to catch every last word of this encounter, which will be discussed and analyzed among the nurses with great relish for months to come.
Trudy walks a few feet away into a corridor, leaving the manager no choice but to switch direction and follow her. She folds her arms and watches the woman's waddling progress, gimlet-eyed.
Where is my mother? she asks when Mrs. Heligson reaches her.
Now, I know you're angry, Mrs. Swenson, and I don't blame you. But let's stay calm here. Your mom's in her room, and she's doing just fine.
Trudy lets out a snort.
I find it hard to believe she's just fine. How could you let her get away like that? What were you people doing, watching talk shows while my seventy-six-year-old mother was wandering down the highway in her nightgown?
Mrs. Heligson's mouth compresses into a hot-pink line.
Well, it wasn't just her nightie, she says. She had her coat on over it… Then, as Trudy boggles at her in astonishment, she adds hastily, Of course we were keeping a close eye on her. We do our best to monitor all our old folks. But you have to understand something: Your mom's still got it up here-
Mrs. Heligson taps her temple.
– and whenever she makes up her mind to get out, she gets out. There's really not much we can-
Wait, says Trudy. Wait just a minute. Am I to understand from what you've just said that this isn't the first time she's run away?
Well. Well, no. It's the third. But-
And you didn't see fit to inform me of this?
Trudy is so aghast that she waves her hands about as though fighting off a swarm of bees. You couldn't have called? Or when I was here at Christmastime-
Mrs. Heligson holds up a fat palm.
Now just a minute, she says. I did call you. I called a bunch of times.
Trudy is belatedly reminded of the blinking red light on her answering machine and how she hit Save without listening to the messages, vowing to return them when she had fewer interviews and more sleep.
And as for Christmas… Mrs. Heligson shakes her head. We did try our best to contain her, she says.
Mrs. Heligson, says Trudy, then stops to regain control of her voice. Mrs. Heligson, are you familiar with the phrase criminally negligent?