After Death (7 page)

This job didn’t even feel like a job — He spent most of his time just socializing. Sure he had to ask his designated questions from time to time and submit simple reports on their answers, but that was a tiny percentage of the time. No one ever criticized his “lucidity reports” and to be honest, he wasn’t sure if anyone even ever read them. He guessed it was probably just another bureaucratic formality — they needed to be able to
say
they had someone on staff that did this in order for something or other to seem more official. And one of his first concerns — that he’d have to deal with his manager Katherine (the snapping turtle) too often, was easily avoided. He just made sure to leave his reports on her desk at lunch-time or after hours when she wasn’t around.

To effect his plans, he decided his short-term goal was to have the kind of rapport Fernando did with the patients. Boy, did they like him! And what was not to like? He was kind and funny and took an interest in what they said and even occasionally came to visit them on days he wasn’t even working. Frank figured that they would have liked him as much or more than Fernando if he were there three years too. At least Eli and Rachel took to him right away. It was kind of amazing; he expected them to be guarded and jaded and reserved but instead they were completely open with him from practically their first meeting. They didn’t seem to mind talking to him about absolutely anything that came up — which was good — He hoped it would make his research that much easier.

His time at the hospital began to fit into a simple routine. Each day he’d alternate making the rounds of the East and West wing of the hospital with two exceptions — Eli and Rachel, who he managed to see every day. In the middle of every round, at exactly three o’clock, he visited Eli and they worked on crossword puzzles together for about an hour. Fernando had been right; the guy was a whiz at them. Next, he would stop by Rachel’s room. After that, if he had time, he’d stop by Lidia’s and sometimes even Larry’s — but this would have to be postponed if there were any newly admitted patients as they required more initial time.

This routine had been going on for two weeks and already the patients seemed to completely accept him. For his part, he felt like he’d been there for years, he felt comfortable and relaxed. The qualms about what he was doing came in waves. Sometimes he felt justified, others he felt dirty and ashamed. On more than one occasion he even considered junking the plan altogether and staying on permanently. If there had been more room for actual advancement, he might have seriously considered this. As things stood, this option was ruled out strictly by economics.

Today, as he sat across from Eli in his ugly Spartan room that was virtually devoid of decoration, he felt horribly guilty. He stared down at the crossword puzzle on the fold-out card table between them and wondered why he’d set this whole thing in motion. In theory, it had sounded great. He was still absolutely sure the idea for the novel was a good one — but he could’ve chosen another way to go about it. Why had he made this commitment to not only himself but to Jackie as well? Now he was trapped. There was no getting out of it now. And the more he thought about it, the more annoyed he got. He couldn’t concentrate and stared at the puzzle before him without seeing until Eli chided him playfully.

“Only contributed two words and one of ‘em is wrong, Frank. “A little” is sure a good description of your play.”

He said this with a very precise manner of speech and a slight sing-song lilt that somehow reminded Frank of Mr. Rogers.

Frank returned his attention to the crossword at hand and saw what Eli referred to — almost every box was filled with Eli’s shaky ink scrawl except for two that were written in pencil — his contribution. He grimaced — They were obviously wrong. He leaned across and began erasing one of the penciled words apologetically.

“Sorry. Guess I’m out of practice.”

Eli dismissed the matter instantly with a loose wave of his hand.

“Doesn’t matter, Frank. Doesn’t matter at all.”

Frank blew the eraser bits off the paper and sighed with the thought:
It was time for at least a little research. He had to get to it sometime.

“How long have you been here, Eli?” He asked conversationally.

Eli thought about it for a moment and even scratched his pointy chin.

“Since I was 77. Which would make it…12 years. If you’re smart that makes me 89 years old.”

“And if I’m not?” Frank asked with a small smile.

“Still 89 years old.” Eli said with a chuckle.

Frank let the smile drop.
Dig
, he thought.
Ask away.

“What happened 12 years ago, Eli? Why’d you come here?”

Again, it didn’t ruffle Eli a bit. It seemed like nothing could shake the even-tempered old gentleman. He even chuckled at the question.

“Didn’t do it on purpose!” He replied, and then more seriously: “Kept fallin’ down the stairs. Then one day I was making soup and I musta dozed off. Next thing I knew the kitchen was on fire and next thing after that, I was here.”

What a horrible fate
, Frank thought.
To be removed from your home, to not be in charge of your own destiny any more…
He frowned.

“What do you think of this place, Eli? They treat you alright?”

For the first time, Eli became tentative. He delayed a good while before answering.

“Don’t wanna answer that, Frank. You seem a nice fella and all but… I’d just rather not…”

He had become as agitated as Frank had ever seen him.
He’s terrified of something.
And on top of that, he was very apologetic — as if he was also afraid that by not being forthright, he might offend Frank and that Frank might never come back.

“You understand..?” Eli added, meeting his eyes, worried.

Frank nodded.
Poor old guy
, he thought
. He’s at the mercy of this place and afraid. It’s self-preservation — He doesn’t want to say anything negative about the place that could come back to haunt him...

Frank responded as soon as he got it. “No problem, Eli — no problem at all.” But he could tell the old guy needed reassuring. His hands were showing a palsy Frank had never seen before. He leaned forward and spoke conspiratorially, eye to eye.

“But I want you to know, Eli — when we talk, it’s just between you and me. Nothing goes outside this room.”

Eli nodded but still didn’t seem entirely convinced.
He’d probably confided something to an employee before and it had backfired on him
, Frank thought
.

Eli obviously didn’t want to alienate Frank and tried to fill the awkward silence that followed.

“Frank short for Franklin?” He asked.

Frank tried to put him at ease.
At least his hands weren’t shaking as badly now.
“Uh huh.” He said with a soft smile.

“I like Franklin. Sounds very dignified.”

Eli reached across and patted Frank’s shoulder with a big veiny hand. He grinned but underneath Frank could read so many things. Eli was sorry and still a little scared but most of all, grateful. Grateful that Frank had allowed this one area to be sacrosanct and had let it pass without tainting their friendship. Eli now understood that Frank was not so easily daunted and would continue to visit. The fear of reprisals and the fear of loneliness had battled and Eli had not come out the worse for the result.

His grin was contagious — and slowly, with the understanding of all this passing between them, Frank couldn’t help but grin back.

***

Lidia sat in her wheel chair parked at an angle in the hall — directly between Frank and Rachel’s room. She was, as always, repeating her phrase over and over, hunched forward, grey hair splayed out across her lap—and somehow she immediately reminded Frank of “Cousin Itt” from the Adam’s Family. He suppressed a smile and put a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Hi Lidia, can you hear me?” He asked.

“…Pick me up at ten o’clock, Pick me up at ten o’clock…” She continued.

He set his clipboard down on the floor and got the idea to try an experiment. He knelt down and leaned very close to her head and spoke softly in her ear.

“Can you tell me your last name, Lidia?” He asked.

He waited and then began to feel foolish. She was in her own world, trapped in some mental place and situation from the past, oblivious to him or anyone else in the present. He imagined her like Sisyphus from Greek mythology, condemned to repeat the same action over and over with the same result (or lack of result), hour after hour, day after day, year after year…

He retrieved his clipboard, rose to his feet as Lidia continued her interminably looped phrase.

“…Pick me up at ten o’clock, Pick me up at ten o’clock,
Johnson
, Pick me up at ten o’clock…”

For an instant, Frank froze, startled.
Had he heard her right?
He moved back to her, again knelt at her side and spoke in her ear.

“Did you say “Johnson”, Lidia?”

She continued her phrase over and over… And he waited. But nothing else came.
He needed to be patient.
He told himself.
He couldn’t have been mistaken…!

Five minutes stretched into ten. Ten into fifteen. His knees had begun to ache. He stood up and stretched and then leaned down and asked her once again.

“Did you say “Johnson”, Lidia?”

She seemed not to hear — her phrase never faltered or changed, over and over:

“…Pick me up at ten o’clock, Pick me up at ten o’clock…” She murmured.

Frank saw that Rachel now leaned against her nearby doorframe. She was in yet another silky evening gown and was doing her best to appear relaxed as she waited for him except for the occasional twitching of her freshly painted bright red fingernails against the wall.

There was nothing to be done for it — If he had heard what he thought he’d heard, Lidia for some reason wasn’t doing it again.

He moved her chair out of the way enough to pass and made his way to Rachel. He was barely within range when she jumped forward and planted a great big kiss on his cheek — incredibly quick for an old gal.

Frank didn’t even have time to register what happened. No matter how much he talked to Rachel about his wife, it seemed to fall on deaf ears and now that he thought about it, it actually seemed to make her
more
affectionate and aggressive.

He’d always noticed the small signs of jealousy — the quick change of subject when Jackie’s name came up, the subsequent slightly higher voice that he took for irritation — but now she’d apparently come up with a new tactic as she dragged him over to another series of black and white photographs on the wall.

She never un-looped her arm entirely from his, instead very careful to exchange one arm for another and overlap the actions so that she had a good grip on him at all times.

She clacked a photo on the wall with her fingernail.

“… I was only 19 then…” She said. “This man here was the Producer. Promised he’d make me a star and, rare enough for those people, he kept his word.” She fluttered her long extended lashes at him with a look that was both coy and smug. “Of course, he also married me.”

Frank was surprised.

“You were married to him too?”

She’d told him about so many husbands he couldn’t keep it straight anymore. She smiled and nodded.

“He was my first husband. I should’ve told it to you in order but oh, I forget. A regular Joan Crawford, I was. No, I meant Joan Collins. Well… one of the two…”

He felt her hand tighten on his arm for a moment and she cleared her throat. When he glanced over, she was looking him up and down again like a hungry dog does a T-bone steak. And as if he needed confirmation, her voice dropped an octave again.

“Have I told you that you’re a fine looking man, Frank?”

Her eyes twinkled and he felt the color rise to his cheeks. She finally let go of his arm and moved to an old chest of drawers in the corner. She reached behind it and pulled out a small silver flask. He was amazed at how quickly she could move when she wanted to. She was back next to him and re-hooked onto his arm in a flash.

“Would you like a drink, Frank?” she asked, all one big red smile.

“Should you be drinking, Rachel?”

He realized he sounded a bit paternal but it was just his protective instinct —
Too late to take back.

She crossed back to the nightstand and poured some caramel colored fluid into her coffee cup. Even from where he stood, the pungent smell of the barrel-aged whiskey clogged the air for a moment.

“They say I shouldn’t, and I say I should. Guess who wins?”

She took a big gulp and shook the flask in the air towards him.

“Sure you don’t want a snort?”

He declined as graciously as he could and made a bee-line for the door. He liked her and had learned to deal with her particular brand of flirtiness without too much discomfort by now. He knew she didn’t mean anything by it — it was probably just years of habit. Like many people, she probably still saw herself as she was in her wall photos…Young, beautiful, and irresistible to men. He only hurried away because he felt he could handle everything just fine—when she was sober. It was when she wasn’t that concerned him…