Bingoed (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”

—Bette Davis

“Rise and shine, Miss Essie,” called out a cheery voice.

Essie Cobb cautiously lifted one eye lid. Realizing that she was safely in her bed and that sunlight was streaming through her bedroom blinds, she ventured opening the second lid. As she glanced around, she saw the familiar face of her daily caregiver nurse, DeeDee Pritoni, hovering over her bed.

“It’s after seven, Miss Essie,” sang out DeeDee in her typical singsong voice. “We don’t want to be late for breakfast now, do we?” She handed Essie her wire-rimmed glasses.

“I’m never late for breakfast,” retorted Essie, slipping on her spectacles.

“You have a healthy appetite for sure!” chortled DeeDee, pulling Essie’s comforter down and dragging her legs to the side of the bed.

“Let’s get these socks on!” sang out DeeDee, her black pony tail swaying. She held up a pair of gym socks that she’d retrieved from Essie’s drawers. Kneeling down, she quickly slipped them onto Essie’s bare feet. Immediately following, she produced a pair of cotton briefs and quickly rolled them over the socks and up Essie’s legs. Essie stood gingerly on the floor and began to hike up the pants. As the final step in underwear donning, DeeDee grabbed Essie’s all-purpose bra from where Essie kept it, hanging around the bedroom door handle (in case she had to get ready fast during the middle of the night for a fire drill). Essie bent forward like a football player ready to tackle, arms slung forward as DeeDee pulled the bra on. Essie then tucked each cup with plentiful amounts of bosom flesh just as if she were stuffing a pillow. DeeDee completed the process by clipping the loosest three hooks on the back of the bra. Straightening up, Essie arranged her bosom around inside the cups—lifting, twisting, and pulling until her chest acquired the appropriate look and feel that she wanted.

“DeeDee,” Essie said finally as her slim, sprightly aide headed for the bedroom closet. “Do you know how Bob Weiderley is?”

“I heard they took him to the hospital last night,” yelled DeeDee from inside Essie’s walk-in closet. “Shall we try these red trousers today, Essie?”

“No,” replied Essie. “The brown ones.”

“But you wore those yesterday,” countered DeeDee, her melodious Italian accent almost inaudible with her head buried in a row of Essie’s slacks and tops.

“And I want to wear them again,” stated Essie firmly. DeeDee returned to the bedroom carrying the trousers in question.

“They’re not very attractive,” noted DeeDee with a lift of her neatly penciled eyebrow. She held up the pair of polyester pants as if they were a line of dead fish.

“But they’re comfortable,” responded Essie. End of discussion. “Do they know what happened to Bob?”

“Not that I know,” said DeeDee, giving in and bending over to slip the trousers over Essie’s feet. Essie assisted her by pulling up on the elasticized waistband. Then she stood up in her stocking-clad feet on her carpet so she could finish pulling on her favorite pants.

“You really should wear some of your other outfits, Essie. You have some lovely clothes. Goodness, if I had such beautiful blouses I would . . .”

“DeeDee,” scowled Essie. “If you like my blouses so much you can have them. I don’t need a closet full of clothes. I’m 90. I’m not a fashion model. Most of those things are too froufrou for me and way too uncomfortable! I don’t know why my children insist on buying me so many clothes.”

“Miss Essie! What are we going to do with you?” chided DeeDee as she held up two selections of tops from Essie’s closet. Essie pointed to the least colorful of the pair causing DeeDee to sigh. Setting down the other top on Essie’s dresser, she grabbed Essie’s preferred top and bunched it up. Essie, on cue, raised her arms and DeeDee slid the top over her head and down her body. “Now shoes!” commanded the shapely aide, hands on her hips. DeeDee grabbed Essie’s sneakers from a chair beside her bed and when Essie sat back down on the bedside, DeeDee slipped them on the older woman’s thin, tiny feet and tied the laces with an amazing speed.

“There we go! Now we’re all set! Why don’t we go sit down in our rocker while I get your meds ready?”

“Yes,” said Essie, smiling. “Why don’t we sit in our rocker? If we can both fit in it.”

“Miss Essie,” responded a laughing DeeDee. “You make me laugh!”

“Too bad I can’t make us both laugh since we tend to do everything together, don’t we?” queried Essie. She grabbed onto her red rolling walker which was stationed near the head of her bed and started to scoot into the small living room of her apartment. DeeDee followed her, turning immediately left into a kitchen nook where she unlocked a cabinet door above the sink. She removed a rectangular plastic container and placed it on the counter.

“Surely someone here must know Bob’s condition,” mused Essie as she cautiously lowered herself into her favorite armchair, centrally located in her living room, with a writing desk on one side and a telephone table on the other. Across the room, a television set stood in a place of honor.

“Violet must know,” answered DeeDee, removing several pills from one of the square subdivisions of the pillbox. She filled a glass with water at the sink and brought both pills and water over to the chair where Essie was now sitting. “Here, our seven morning pills. Bottoms up!” She placed the pills in Essie’s right palm and handed her the glass of water. Essie took a cursory look at the pills, then plopped them all in her mouth at once and gulped them down with several swallows of water. “I’m sure she’ll tell the nurses on duty today what she knows. I mean, Bob’s caregiver needs to know that he’s not here.”

“Did they take him to Fairview?” Essie asked.

“I guess so. That’s where they take most residents because it’s so close. Unless, of course, there’s some reason the resident has requested a different hospital and I can’t see any reason why Bob would do that.”

“Poor Bob.”

“Yes, such a nice gentleman.”

“He doesn’t have any family, does he?”

“I don’t know.” DeeDee had busied herself with putting away the pill container box and straightening up Essie’s sink. “Now, Miss Essie, is there anything you need before I go?”

“No, I’ll just sit here and work on my puzzles until breakfast.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea! I don’t know how you ever manage to do those crosswords! I’m lucky if I can fill in two words,” sang out DeeDee. “Have a great day!” She headed out Essie’s front door into the hallway. Essie could see residents gliding back and forth outside of her doorway with their walkers, canes, and wheelchairs. It was like watching planes flying in a holding pattern around an airport, she often thought. All of the Happy Haven residents had their transportation machines of one sort or another and they all piloted them relatively well—some better than others.

DeeDee closed Essie’s door and the sounds of the outside receded. Essie reached across her end table for her TV remote. She pushed the ON button and soon the sounds of a local news program filled her small apartment. She listened only briefly. She really wasn’t much interested in news unless it was news about something going on at Happy Haven, because that was the focus of her world. She reached out again to her end table for a clipboard to which was attached a stack of puzzle sheets. She hadn’t quite finished yesterday’s puzzle. Quickly she became engrossed in pondering the remaining clues. She often spent the hour before breakfast working on her puzzles and most days she was able to complete one before she went for her morning meal.

As she scribbled some possible ideas in the puzzle squares, she considered the events of the previous evening. Why did Bob collapse? Was it a heart attack? Had he been sick? He always seemed perfectly healthy. Did they get him to the hospital in time? What about his family? Was it true that he had no one? No wife? No children? No one? How sad.

Most everyone she knew at Happy Haven had some family. Most of the women she knew well were widows but they all had children. Some even had children who lived nearby as hers did. Prudence and Claudia visited frequently and helped take care of things that she couldn’t handle any longer such as her taxes and her bank account. Kurt wasn’t so close, but he did visit from time to time. And, of course, there were the grandchildren. How many were there now? Seven? Eight? She couldn’t quite remember. Let’s see. One of them recently got married too. Which one was it?

She reached over to her desk on the other side of her armchair. Her hand touched her address book which she picked up and opened at random. In this book, she had recorded the names, addresses, and phone numbers of literally hundreds of people whom she had known through the years. As her eyes perused the page, she saw many names with a line drawn through them and a notation to the side indicating the status of the person. Most status indications that she added nowadays said “deceased.” That is, most of the people who were no longer listed in her book had been removed because they had died. Soon, she thought, there won’t be any names left in my book. Then, as quickly as the morbid thought had entered her mind, it left. Essie was not one to dwell on things she couldn’t change. She was far more likely to think positively—or productively—as she coined it. If there was something wrong, why bemoan it? Why not figure out a way to make it right?

Another thought entered her mind. Again, it was about Bob Weiderley. Bob was worth thinking about, because as far as she knew, he was still alive. She determined to find out what she could about Bob and his condition. Also, she determined to find out about his family—if he had a family. And when Essie Cobb determined to do something, she usually did it.

Chapter Three

“How does one keep from ‘growing old inside’? Surely only in community. The only way to make friends with time is to stay friends with people.”

—Robert McAfee Brown

“Miss Essie, you like de nice omelets for breakfast?”

The young man in the white waiter’s jacket stood patiently beside Essie, pencil poised.

“Yes, Santos, the omelets. And bacon. And, Santos, make sure they don’t fry it to a crisp.”

“Yes, Miss Essie,” responded Santos, jotting down her directions. “And Miss Opal? Your regular?”

Opal nodded even though her head was still stuck in the covered leather menu that was provided to residents for all meals.

“Santos,” interjected Marjorie before the young man had completed the previous diner’s order. “I’d like some fresh fruit, please. What is fresh today?”

“Big strawberries, Miss Marjorie!” replied Santos, his eyes lighting up, his hands gesturing to indicate the size of the berries. “Huge! We make shortcake tonight. You have some this morning?”

“Yes,” replied Marjorie, closing her menu and handing it to the waiter. “That’s all I want. And, of course, some cream too.” She smiled sweetly at the young man. Just like she probably smiled at her first-graders when she taught elementary school, thought Essie.

“What about Miss Fay?” asked Santos. “You think she want anything to eat?” Fay had drifted off in her wheelchair with her menu clutched against her chest.

“Just bring her a sweet roll,” suggested Essie. “She can nibble on that when she wakes up.”

“She’ll just make a mess of that, Essie,” said Opal with a slight sniff.

“She has to eat, Opal,” argued Essie, “and besides, a sweet roll is probably the least messy item on the menu and she can take it with her if she doesn’t finish it here.” She smiled at Santos to indicate Fay’s breakfast choice had been made.

“Yes, yes. Good, ladies,” answered the cheerful young Latino. “I get breakfast. I be right back.” He scampered off into the kitchen. Essie twisted around in her chair and glanced towards the dining hall door.

“What are you looking for?” asked Opal, stiffening to her full height of 5’9” in her chair. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No,” whispered Essie. “I wanted to see if Bob was back.”

“Essie,” said Marjorie, “surely you wouldn’t expect he’d be back so soon. They took him away in an ambulance last night! No one could make that quick of a recovery!”

“Have any of you heard anything about his condition?” continued Essie, looking at her companions, at least the two who were awake.

“My aide is Bob’s aide too,” contributed Opal. “She was told that he’s in Fairview. She said he’s in a coma.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Essie. The short tufts of scraggly white hair that grew where most people had eyebrows rose above the level of Essie’s glasses.

“That’s the last we’ll see of him,” Opal said dismally, her distress reflected in her sunken cheeks. “Remember last year ago when Edward Strott ended up in a coma. He was like that for weeks! Then he just died all of a sudden!” She heaved a sigh which was visible as a rolling movement in her entire upper torso from neck to waist.

“That doesn’t mean that’s what will happen to Bob,” argued Marjorie in a sprightly voice. “People do come out of comas.”

“I’ve heard that the longer they remain in a coma,” said Essie, “the less chance they have of recovering.” Her companions considered this observation for a moment.

“Then we just have to pray that he’ll come out of it soon!” said Marjorie with a determined little punch of her fist and at the same time wiping her eye delicately with the corner of her table napkin.

“I just don’t get it,” said Essie, shaking her head. Her sparkling white locks gleaming in the morning sunlight belied her otherwise serious face.

“What don’t you get, Essie?” asked Opal with a tilt of her simple, but neatly coifed head. “That old people get sick and die?”

“No,” answered Essie, pursing her mouth into a wrinkled scowl. “Bob. Bob Weiderley. He’s always seemed so healthy. Yes, he uses a cane, but have you seen him at exercise class?”

“You mean, have I seen him wearing his gym shorts and sneakers?” giggled Marjorie. “He does have a nice physique.”

“That nice physique is just an indication of an athletic body,” continued Essie. “Bob can do more push-ups than any other man at Happy Haven.”

“That wouldn’t be much of a challenge,” noted Opal. She rolled her eyes, and lightly touched the namesake cameo around her neck.

“The point is, Opal, if you’ll let me finish—the point is that Bob Weiderley is probably in better health than most. . .”

“A fine specimen of manhood,” added Marjorie. She shimmied her shoulders suggestively.

“I just don’t think he had a heart attack or stroke because he won a round of Bingo,” claimed Essie. She folded her arms as if to indicate she was finished.

“Really, Essie,” argued Opal, “at age 82, a man can have a heart attack or stroke just because. They don’t need some instigating event like winning Bingo or running a mile or. . .”

“Having sex,” suggested Marjorie sotto voce.

“Marjorie!” gasped Opal. “What would make you suggest that?”

“It’s a possibility,” responded Marjorie, her eyelids fluttering. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers!”

“Marjorie! Opal!” chimed in Essie. “Before you two come to blows, let me suggest that if Bob Weiderley were to die from sexual exertion, it would probably occur during the . . .uh, the . . . act itself—not during a round of Bingo.” Marjorie and Opal both shrugged and Essie continued with her case. “No, I’m guessing that what we’re looking at is some other event that caused Bob to collapse when he won that Bingo game last night.”

“But what, Essie?” asked Marjorie.

“Yes, Essie, what? Other than old age?” added Opal.

“That I intend to find out,” replied Essie just as Santos returned with their breakfast plates in hand. He gracefully placed the dishes before each of the women.

“Breakfast is served, lovely ladies!” he announced. The women smiled and cooed at their regular breakfast fare. Santos accepted their responses, smiling and blushing, as if they were personal compliments.

“Santos, I have a question,” said Essie, grabbing the young man’s sleeve and pulling him close to her.

“Yes, Miss Essie,” he responded gravely. “You change mind about bacon?” Marjorie and Opal dug into their food.

“No, no,” she said, waving her hand. “I need to know about Bob Weiderley’s table—over there.” She gestured to the location by the main entrance where she knew Bob was assigned. “Do you know the three ladies who are Bob’s tablemates? I believe one of them is Hazel Brubaker, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Miss Essie,” replied the waiter, continuing to listen politely to the older woman. “Miss Hazel is the tall one and there’s Miss Rose Lane and Miss Evelyn Cudahy. Mr. Bob; he is very nice gentleman. We all very sorry he is ill.”

“Which is Rose?”

“Miss Rose is the, the shorter . . . heavier lady with the bluish hair.”

“And Evelyn must be . . .”

“Miss Evelyn is the one wearing the scarf. She lose her hair from chemotherapy. Poor lady. Very nice.”

“Thank you, Santos.”

“Of course, Miss Essie. I know you very nice lady. You want to make Mr. Bob’s table ladies feel better. “

“Yes, Santos,” said Essie. Marjorie and Opal leaned in to hear her remarks to the waiter. “Yes, Santos, I want to speak to them and tell them how sorry I am about Bob.”

“You very nice lady, Miss Essie,” said Santos. Essie removed her palm from the young man’s arm and smiled. Her table companions smiled benignly too and Santos headed off to the kitchen.

“You intend to pump those women for information, don’t you, Essie?” demanded Opal.

“Pump is a very strong verb,” said Essie, stabbing a lump of omelet with her fork.

“What do you think they can tell you about Bob, Essie, that you don’t already know?” asked Marjorie. Her lips stopped in mid-air, poised around a large red strawberry.

Essie ignored Marjorie’s question as she gobbled up a few bites of egg and bacon. Finally she spoke.

“If I run into them, I may offer my condolences,” said Essie, wiping some bacon bits from her mouth.

“Condolences?” questioned Opal as she carefully nibbled at her soft-boiled egg, “Remember, he’s not dead.”

“Who’s dead?” asked Fay, rousing from her wheelchair seat. Essie handed her the sweet roll on the plate before her. Fay sniffed it and then pulled off a small piece and plopped it in her mouth.

“No one, Fay,” said Marjorie. “Bob is still alive as far as we know.”

“Bob who?” asked Fay, totally engrossed in her sweet roll.

“Bob Weiderley,” answered Opal. “He collapsed last night at Bingo.”

“Where’s the bacon?” asked Fay.

“Here,” said Essie, handing Fay a piece of her bacon. “Have some of mine.” Fay put down the sweet roll and began chomping on Essie’s bacon.

“She doesn’t eat bacon,” noted Marjorie.

“She does today,” said Essie, with a shrug. Then, bending conspiratorially towards her table mate, she asked, “Marjorie, are those three women still at their table?”

“You mean at Bob’s table?” asked Marjorie.

“Yes; I don’t want to turn around to look.”

“They’re all still there. Are you going over?”

“No, I’d rather talk to each one of them alone.”

“Oh, I see,” said Opal. “So they can’t collude.”

“So they can’t collide?” Marjory asked Opal.

“No,” explained Opal. “Essie’s afraid that if she goes over there right now and talks to the women about Bob, they’ll know what she’s up to and they’ll work together to keep her from getting information.”

“You mean lie to her,” added Marjorie. She bent so far towards Essie that one of her tight, little red curls flopped over her forehead. She quickly tucked it back into position.

“Maybe,” said Essie. “Who knows? Maybe one of them is responsible for Bob’s collapse at Bingo last night.”

“Essie, you must be kidding!” snapped Opal. Her drawn, somber face looked even more imposing as she squeezed her eyebrows together and aimed her gaze straight at Essie. Opal had had a long, impressive career as an administrative assistant to a corporate lawyer. Over the years she obviously had polished her skills as a gatekeeper. One glance, one word from her was often enough to frighten off anyone who didn’t know Opal as the basically gentle person she was.

“You never can tell, Opal,” Essie maintained her argument. “That man was healthy. I just can’t believe he collapsed and is now—in a coma!”

“Who’s in a coma?” asked Fay, suddenly sitting upright, her eyes popping open.

“Never mind, Fay,” said Opal. “Eat your bacon.” Fay glanced down at the bacon slice hanging precariously from her chin. She immediately grabbed it and began to nibble.

“I don’t suspect any of his tablemates,” Essie said, as she slid her glasses up her nose, “but I do intend to talk to them to see what they know about Bob. What they know about his health.”

“Why are you so interested in Bob all of a sudden, Essie?” asked Marjorie, wiping her mouth and folding her napkin.

“I just don’t like to see anything bad happen to any of us here. We’re all in the same boat, aren’t we? If I collapsed at Bingo, I hope the two of you would try to figure out why.”

“Oh, Essie, you know we would!” exclaimed Marjorie.

“Speak for yourself,” said Opal. “I’m no detective.” She pushed her chair out from the table and slowly rose to a standing position behind her walker. “I’m heading back to my room.”

“We’ll see you at lunch, Essie,” said Marjorie, standing to join Opal. She rolled her walker around and the two women pushed their personal vehicles away at full steam, Opal leading, down the center aisle of the dining hall.

“Fay,” said Essie to her remaining breakfast companion, “I guess that just leaves the two of us!”

“Bacon!” shouted Fay, noticing that she had devoured her slice.

“I always love these morning conversations we have, Fay,” added Essie, patting Fay’s hand warmly.

Fay smiled at no one in particular.

Essie gestured to Santos who was passing by with a coffee pot to refill her cup. She leaned back in her chair and glanced around the room. Most of the residents of Happy Haven had cleared out. Only a few diners remained and the wait staff were hurriedly clearing the tables. She tried to imagine the room as it was last night during the Bingo game. Almost everyone had been there. Most of the residents loved their once-a-week Bingo game and most wouldn’t miss it unless they were seriously ill or incapacitated. So, most of the residents had witnessed Bob Weiderley’s collapse. If there had been anything unusual about the event, Essie was sure that Bob’s three table companions would be the ones to notice.