Anne Arundel Health Matters magazine, Spring, 2012.
Early the following morning I was soaking in a bathtub full of lavender bubbles when Naddie called and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Become a volunteer in the memory unit and Calvert Colony would provide me with lunch. Free. All I’d have to do is help some of the residents with their individual iPods, take walks with some and read stories to others.
Since Paul was still in the process of circumnavigating Long Island, the prospect of Raniero’s cooking was a lot more appealing than what I’d planned for myself that day, namely sliced tomatoes and a carton of Stouffers macaroni and cheese, which still lay rock solid in the freezer compartment of my fridge.
Besides, it wasn’t exactly a hardship. Visiting Blackwalnut Hall was like checking into the Hyatt Regency. In fact, when I reported to the lounge for duty later that morning, an attractive man dressed in high prep – khakis, a navy sports jacket and a button-down oxford shirt with a red tie – sat coaxing sixties and seventies tunes out of the Steinway grand.
While I waited along with Naddie for a woman named Elaine Broering to escort me into the memory unit, I couldn’t resist singing along, echoing the responses in ‘The Candy Man’ along with most of the residents sitting around me. Two of the singers were the pair of lovebirds I’d seen sitting at the piano the previous week, sharing their love of Stephen Foster favorites with the other residents.
Halfway through the next selection, where a couple of members of our intrepid gang of backup singers got irretrievably stuck on ‘Sgt Pepper’s lonely, Sgt Pepper’s lonely, Sgt Pepper’s lonely, Sgt Pepper’s lonely…’ with no indication that they’d ever reach the ‘Hearts Club Band’ part of the song, I noticed a young man pacing nervously in front of the reception desk. He wore a shiny blue suit that stood out like a neon sign among the more casually attired seniors around him. He carried a bouquet of flowers, too, their stems wrapped in the familiar green tissue paper of a local supermarket chain. He also looked vaguely familiar.
‘Hold the phone! Isn’t that…’ Naddie began, but for me, the penny had already dropped. The last time I’d seen that dude, he’d been showing off his tats on a video chat with Christie McSpadden.
‘Apparently Dickie-boy isn’t in Afghanistan anymore,’ I said. ‘I think I better go telephone Angie.’
I excused myself and slipped out onto the front porch. At first I thought Angie wasn’t going to answer. After four rings my call switched over to her answerphone, but she picked up mid-message with a breathless, ‘Hello.’ Then: ‘You got me down in the basement doing laundry,’ Angie said after I’d identified myself. ‘What’s up?’
‘Thought you’d want to know that Dickie-boy has come to call.’
Silence stretched out for several long seconds before Angie exploded, ‘Shit! He’s not in Kandahar. No wonder she’s been so concerned over her appearance lately. I should have picked up on that. What should I do, Hannah?’
‘Tell you what, I’ll keep an eye on him while you get yourself over here.’ I watched through the leaded glass on the door while Richard Whatever-his-name-was signed in on the little computer screen at reception. ‘Your mother-in-law hasn’t shown up yet. But Angie,’ I continued, ‘the guy’s got flowers.’
‘Of course he does. And probably a box of chocolate-covered cherries, too.’
‘How soon can you get over here?’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘What if he plans to take Christie out?’ I asked.
‘Well, we can’t stop her. Calvert Colony isn’t a prison camp, and she still has a car and a valid driver’s license, although I wish like hell she wouldn’t drive.’
‘I just watched the guy sign in. Would an ax murderer do that?’ I paused to collect my thoughts. ‘Tell you what,’ I volunteered, Nancy Drew to the rescue, ‘if they leave, I’ll try to follow. We can keep in touch by cell phone, OK?’
Angie agreed and cut the connection.
I rejoined Naddie. We had reached the final verse of ‘I Got a Crush on You, Sweetie Pie’ when Christie finally appeared, gliding down the grand staircase like Loretta Young. Loretta would have been wearing a designer ball gown and masses of jewels, but Christie looked smart in a surprisingly age-appropriate blue-checked shirtwaist dress and a pair of black-and-white spectator flats. She’d even dug a chunky gold chain necklace out of her jewelry box, with a pair of matching earrings.
Clearly, Richard’s visit was no surprise.
He recognized her at once, took several quick steps forward and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. The flowers were handed over. I wasn’t close enough to hear what the two were saying over the exuberant, off-key singing that was filling the lobby, but their body language was clear enough. Christie pressed her hand against her breast. For me? How sweet! Then enveloped him in a hug.
Oh, it’s nothing. He accepted the hug a bit stiffly, or so it seemed to me.
Christie handed the bouquet to the receptionist – would you put these in water for me, please? – took Richard’s arm and dragged him over to a loveseat by the fireplace. Never mind that Edith was already sitting there, reading. With an imperial wave, Christie promptly dispatched the poor woman – afghan, paperback, teacup and all – so that she and Richard could sit down on it.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I whispered to Naddie, and scooted off.
‘… take a taxi?’ Christie was saying to Richard as I crept up casually behind them, feigning fascination with a game of hearts going on at a table in a nearby corner.
‘Cab? You’ve got to be kidding, Christie. I walked the queue, took one look and said no way. Decided to get a rental car. All the cabbies at BWI are Muslims.’
‘Surely not!’ she chirped.
‘It’s the same in New York. I’ll bet you didn’t know that they come to the U.S. to work as cab drivers for a year so they can get enough money to blow themselves up.’
I turned away from the card game in time to see Christie shove Richard’s arm playfully with the flat of her hand. ‘You!’
‘There goes one now,’ Richard said. ‘Halloween must be coming early this year.’
He was obviously referring to Safa Abaza, wearing a pale blue hijab, who had paused in front of the reception desk to hand an envelope to the receptionist. Richard stared with obvious venom at Safa’s back as she disappeared through the doorway of the memory unit.
‘Don’t be ugly, Dickie,’ Christie chided. ‘She’s really a nice woman. Volunteers with the dementia patients, which is more than most people would do.’
‘You can’t trust any of ’em, not even the children.’ His voice broke. After a pause, he cleared his throat and continued, ‘Let’s just say it’s my first amendment right as an American to hate anybody I want, even Muslims.’
One of the hearts players had a gold-knobbed walking stick propped up against his chair. I felt like grabbing the stick and using it to clobber the Islamophobic jerk, but I was saved from a life sentence for murder when Richard reached over and picked up Christie’s hand, clasping it in both of his own. ‘I was an army medic in Afghanistan, Christie.’
Christie stared at Richard for a moment as the significance of his statement sank in. She withdrew her hand from his and pressed both her palms over her ears. ‘Stop. I don’t want to hear it.’
Richard ignored her. ‘I was in a convoy when it was halted by an IED up ahead. While we waited for our guys to move the wreckage off the road, our Jeep was rushed by a crowd of kids – seven, maybe eight years old – begging for candy. I was tossing out strawberry Pop-Rocks when they swarmed over us, and one of them cut my buddy’s neck with a knife. I did everything I could to stop the bleeding, got him on the helicopter and out to the hospital in Bagram…’ Richard paused and swallowed hard. ‘He… he didn’t make it.’