‘Everyone thought Tyson was going into politics,’ Naddie continued, ‘but he disappointed everyone by applying his considerable clout and expertise to community work. After he uncovered Medicare fraud on a massive scale at a national nursing home chain where, basically, the company was giving patients rehab they didn’t need and billing the government for it, he found himself on the board of several hospitals, so when the investors were looking for somebody squeaky clean to run Calvert Colony, his name shot to the top of the list.’
‘I haven’t talked to all the staff, of course, but from what I’ve heard, I really like Tyson’s philosophy.’
She smiled. ‘We all do. That’s why he’s in charge here.’
The server had just delivered our sandwiches – tuna melt for me and a BLT for Naddie – when Tyson Bennett made a pit stop at our table. After Naddie introduced me, he said, ‘Ah yes. Mrs Ives. I hear you’re volunteering in the memory unit. Thank you for that.’
‘No secrets around here, then,’ I joked. ‘And please, call me Hannah.’
‘I believe I know your husband, Paul? We met at the Rotary Club crab feast last week.’
If the annual Annapolis Rotary Club crab feast didn’t have a place in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest crab feast in the world, it ought to. For sixty bucks, you, too, could be one of the twenty-five hundred folks who filled the Navy-Marine Corps stadium and chowed down on four-thousand crabs, thirty-four hundred ears of corn, a hundred-and-thirty gallons of crab soup, God only knows how many hot dogs, and barrels and barrels of draft beer. You could buy T-shirts, too, natch. ‘Sorry to have missed it this year,’ I lied. Picking crabs just wasn’t my thing, not even for charity.
Tyson’s blue eyes considered me curiously from behind his aviator glasses. ‘Paul and I were working the Budweiser truck,’ he said. ‘Sixty kegs consumed, more or less.’
‘Not much left for the ticket holders, then,’ I joked.
Tyson laughed. ‘Well, can’t claim we didn’t sample the merchandise, but somebody had to make sure it was potable.’
‘A tough job, but somebody has to do it,’ Naddie said.
‘Will I see you at the board meeting this afternoon, Mrs Gray? Something just came up that we need to discuss.’
‘With bells on,’ Naddie replied, sounding grim.
‘Nice to have met you, Hannah.’ Tyson extended his hand.
‘Likewise,’ I said, shaking it, thinking Masud Abaza hadn’t wasted any time taking his complaint straight to the top of the food chain.
After Tyson disappeared into the lounge, Naddie took a bite of her sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, then said, ‘To tell you the truth, Hannah, I can’t stand board meetings. If they simply read what’s been sent out with the agenda ahead of time, what the hell is the point? Should be spelled B-O-R-E-D, if you ask me.’
I’d been the records manager for a large accounting firm in Washington, D.C., so I’d attended my share of ‘bored’ meetings, too. It was another thing I didn’t miss about not having a career ‘outside the home’ – that and the punishing commute.
‘I think you’ll find there’s an item on the agenda that wasn’t included in the email,’ I said. Over the soup, I gave Naddie a head’s up on the vandalized musalla and Masud’s tussle with Balaclava Man.
Naddie dabbed her lips with her napkin then threw it down on the tablecloth. ‘Damn, damn, damn! Just what we need.’
‘Do you think Tyson will report the incident to the police, Naddie?’
‘I’m sure of it, Hannah. If it were simply an act of vandalism…’ She looked thoughtful. ‘… probably not. But you say Masud Abaza was attacked by this guy?’
In spite of the seriousness of the conversation, I smiled. ‘According to Masud, it was quite the other way around, Naddie. Masud caught the guy in the act and tackled him. That’s when the fist fight broke out.’
After a pause, during which Naddie seemed to be marshalling her thoughts, she said, ‘So, other than that, Colonel Custer, how was your first day on the job?’
‘Uneventful,’ I fibbed. ‘At least nobody yelled or threw things, or decided to take off their pants like Paul’s great uncle William used to do whenever things at the nursing home didn’t go his way.’ I slid a homemade potato chip into my mouth, bit down and sighed with pleasure – crunchy, nutty, just a hint of salt. ‘Why me, though? Are you short-staffed or something?’
Naddie frowned. ‘Not at all, it’s just that we’ve found that the residents benefit from the extra one-on-one attention they receive from somebody not in a uniform. Our volunteers tend to serve as an extended family for the residents, and they look forward to every visit.’ She waved a dill pickle spear over her plate. ‘It’s especially true for the older residents who have outlived most of their family. One of our volunteers brings in her children and the residents treat them like their own grandchildren. It’s really heartwarming.’
‘How many volunteers are there?’
‘It varies but right now, counting you, there’s eight.’ She folded her napkin and laid it on the tablecloth. ‘There’s another volunteer over there, in fact, having lunch with her husband, the guy we’ve just been speaking about.’
I swiveled in my seat. The dining room was full so I wasn’t sure to whom she was referring. In addition to several faces I recognized from the sing-alongs in the lounge, I noticed Safa Abaza sitting with Masud at a table for two in an isolated corner of the dining room. A shopping bag from Nordstrom rested on the floor next to her chair and she was showing him a necklace she’d evidently purchased. His face remained blank, bored. He concentrated on his plate, where he seemed to be dissecting a lamb kabob. As I watched, he dragged a cube of lamb through a pile of rice, not seeming to notice either his wife or the necklace with which she seemed so pleased.
‘You mean the Abazas.’
‘Correct. Safa has been volunteering in the memory unit for several months. She’s a quiet, gentle soul and the residents love her.’
‘Confession,’ I said. ‘I’ve met Safa, too, while I was waiting for you the other day. Since you were so late…’ I gave her a wink, ‘… we had time for a good chat. Interesting woman.’
Her mouth full of fruit salad, Naddie simply nodded.
Before coming to lunch, Masud had changed into a clean shirt. Safa wore an ankle-length, long-sleeved shapeless black garment, possibly because she’d been out in public, shopping at the mall. A brilliant saffron-colored silk scarf covered her head and neck. ‘It’s August, for heaven’s sake. It must get hot under all those layers,’ I mused. ‘She must feel like ripping them off and jumping into the swimming pool.’
‘From time to time, she does. You should see her burkini,’ Naddie said.
‘You’re kidding me. A burkini?’
‘It looks like a full-body wetsuit with a colorful hood to pull over your head. Safa’s a modest but thoroughly modern Muslim woman.’
I considered going up to their table and introducing myself to Masud – he’d seen me at least two times, after all, but we’d never been formally introduced. He probably thought I was a member of the staff. Masud looked like such a sourpuss, however, that I decided to put that on the back burner. Besides, I might unwittingly be breaching protocol.
I decided I’d let Safa make the first move in that direction. I’d probably see her again soon enough anyway – if not around Calvert Colony proper, our paths might cross eventually in the memory unit.
It ended up being much sooner than I expected.
NINE
‘Regardless of a nursing home resident’s age or mental capacity, they need touch and affection. Residents of all U.S. facilities have a right to romance – as long as it’s consensual. “We try to keep residents as independent as possible,” said Suzanne Garside, executive director of Emeritus at Federal Way. Residents find love and get remarried at the assisted living facility. Caregivers have also walked in on couples by accident, but unless safety is compromised, they let the fireworks continue.’