Ford County (24 page)

A car passed behind them, and Cranwell lowered the gun for a moment. Then he continued, “You can call the cops, have me arrested, thrown in jail, and all that, though I’m not sure how many witnesses you can find. You can cause trouble, but those guys back there’ll be ready. A stupid move, and you’ll regret it immediately.”

“I’ll do nothing, I promise. Just let me out of here.”

“Your promises mean nothing. You go on now, Wade, go home, and then go back to the office tomorrow. Find some more little people to run over. We’ll have us a truce, me and you, until Michael dies.”

“Then what?”

He just smiled and waved the gun closer. “Go on, Wade. Open the door, get out, and leave us alone.”

Stanley hesitated only briefly and was soon walking away
from the truck. He turned a corner, found a sidewalk in the darkness, and saw the sign for the Rite Price. He wanted to run, to sprint, but there were no sounds behind him. He glanced back once. Cranwell was gone.

As Stanley hustled toward his car, he began to think about the story he would tell his wife. Three hours late for dinner would require a story.

And it would be a lie, that was certain.

Quiet Haven

T
he Quiet Haven Retirement Home is a few miles outside the city limits of Clanton, off the main road north, tucked away in a shaded valley so that it cannot be seen by passing motorists. Such homes near such highways pose significant dangers. I know this from experience because I was employed at Heaven’s Gate outside Vicksburg when Mr. Albert Watson wandered off and found his way onto a four-lane, where he got hit by a tanker truck. He was ninety-four and one of my favorites. I went to his funeral. Lawsuits followed, but I didn’t stick around. These patients often wander. Some try to escape, but they’re never successful. I don’t really blame them for trying, though.

My first glimpse of Quiet Haven reveals a typical 1960s flat-roof, redbrick run-down building with several wings and the general appearance of a dressed-up little prison where people are sent
to quietly spend their final days. These places were once generally called nursing homes, but now the names have been upgraded to retirement homes and retirement villages and assisted-living centers and other such misnomers. “Momma’s at the retirement village” sounds more civilized than “We stuck her in a nursing home.” Momma’s at the same place; now it just sounds better, at least to everyone but Momma.

Whatever you call them, they’re all depressing. But they are my turf, my mission, and every time I see a new one I’m excited by the challenges.

I park my ancient and battered Volkswagen Beetle in the small empty parking lot in front. I adjust my black-framed 1950s-style nerd glasses and my thickly knotted tie, no jacket, and get out of my car. At the front entrance, under the sheet-metal veranda, there are half a dozen of my new friends sitting in deep wicker rocking chairs, watching nothing. I smile and nod and say hello, but only a couple are able to respond. Inside, I’m hit by the same thick, putrid antiseptic smell that wafts through the halls and walls of every one of these places. I present myself to the receptionist, a robust young woman in a fake nurse’s uniform. She’s behind the front counter, going through a stack of paperwork, almost too busy to acknowledge me.

“I have a ten o’clock appointment with Ms. Wilma Drell,” I say meekly.

She looks me over, doesn’t like what she sees, and refuses to smile. “Your name?” Her name is Trudy, according to the cheap plastic badge pinned just above her massive left breast, and Trudy
is precariously close to becoming the first name on my brand-new shit list.

“Gilbert Griffin,” I say politely. “Ten a.m.”

“Have a seat,” she says, nodding at a row of plastic chairs in the open lobby.

“Thank you,” I say and proceed to sit like a nervous ten-year-old. I study my feet, covered in old white sneakers and black socks. My pants are polyester. My belt is too long for my waist. I am, in a nutshell, unassuming, easily run over, the lowest of the low.

Trudy goes about her business of rearranging stacks of paper. The phone rings occasionally, and she’s polite enough to the callers. Ten minutes after I arrive, on time, Ms. Wilma Drell swishes in from the hallway and presents herself. She, too, wears a white uniform, complete with white stockings and white shoes with thick soles that take a pounding because Wilma is even heavier than Trudy.

I stand, terrified, and say, “Gilbert Griffin.”

“Wilma Drell.” We shake hands only because we must, then she spins and begins to walk away, her thick white stockings grinding together and creating friction that can be heard at some distance. I follow like a frightened puppy, and as we turn the corner, I glance at Trudy, who’s giving me a look of complete disdain and dismissal. At that moment, her name hits my list at number one.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Wilma will be number two, with the potential of moving up.

We wedge into a small cinder-block office, walls painted government gray, cheap metal desk, cheap wooden credenza adorned with Wal-Mart photos of her chubby children and haggard husband. She settles herself behind the desk and into an executive swivel, as if she’s the CEO of this exciting and prosperous outfit. I slide into a rickety chair that’s at least twelve inches lower than the swivel. I look up. She looks down.

“You’ve applied for a job,” she says as she picks up the application I mailed in last week.

“Yes.” Why else would I be here?

“As an attendant. I see you’ve had experience in retirement homes.”

“Yes, that’s correct.” On my application I listed three other such places. I left all three without controversy. There are about a dozen others, though, that I would never mention. The reference checking will go smoothly, if it happens at all. Usually there is a halfhearted effort to place a couple of calls. Nursing homes don’t worry about hiring thieves or child molesters or even people like me, guys with a complicated past.

“We need an attendant for the late-night shift, from 9:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., four days a week. You’ll be in charge of monitoring the halls, checking on the patients, caring for them in a general way.”

“That’s what I do,” I say. And walking them to the bathroom, mopping floors after they’ve made a mess, bathing them, changing their clothes, reading them stories, listening to their life histories, writing letters, buying birthday cards, dealing with their families, refereeing their disputes, arranging and cleaning their bedpans. I know the routine.

“Do you enjoy working with people?” she asks, the same stupid question they always ask. As if all people were the same. The patients are usually delightful. It’s the other employees who find their way onto my list.

“Oh yes,” I say.

“Your age is—”

“Thirty-four,” I say. You can’t do the math? My date of birth is question number three on the application. What she really wants to say is, “Why does a thirty-four-year-old man choose to pursue such a demeaning career?” But they never have the guts to ask this.

“We’re paying $6.00 an hour.”

That was in the ad. She offers this as if it were a gift. The minimum wage is currently $5.15. The company that owns Quiet Haven hides behind the meaningless name of HVQH Group, a notoriously sleazy outfit out of Florida. HVQH owns some thirty retirement facilities in a dozen states and has a long history of nursing home abuse, lawsuits, lousy care, employment discrimination, and tax problems, but in spite of such adversity the company has managed to make a mint.

“That’s fine,” I say. And it’s really not that bad. Most of the corporations that operate chains start their bedpan boys at minimum wage. But I’m not here for the money, at least not the modest wages offered by HVQH.

She’s still reading the application. “High school graduate. No college?”

“Didn’t have the opportunity.”

“That’s too bad,” she offers, clucking her teeth and shaking
her head in sympathy. “I got my degree from a community college,” she says smugly, and with that Ms. Wilma Drell hits the list hard at number two. She’ll move up. I finished college in three years, but since they expect me to be a moron, I never tell them this. It would make things far too complicated. Postgrad work was done in two years.

“No criminal record,” she says with mock admiration.

“Not even a speeding ticket,” I say. If she only knew. True, I’ve never been convicted, but there have been some close calls.

“No lawsuits, no bankruptcies,” she muses. It’s all there in black and white.

“I’ve never been sued,” I say, clarifying a bit of language. I’ve been involved in a number of lawsuits, but none in which I was a named party.

“How long have you lived in Clanton?” she asks in an effort to drag out the interview and make it last more than seven minutes. She and I both know that I’ll get the job because the ad has been running for two months.

“Couple of weeks. Came here from Tupelo.”

“And what brings you to Clanton?” You gotta love the South. People seldom hesitate to ask personal questions. She really doesn’t want the answer, but she’s curious as to why someone like me would move to a new town to look for work at six bucks an hour.

“Bad romance in Tupelo,” I say, lying. “Needed a change of scenery.” The bad romance bit always works.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but she’s not, of course.

She drops my application on the desk. “When can you start work, Mr. Griffin?”

“Just call me Gill,” I say. “When do you need me?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Fine.”

They usually need me right away, so the instant start date is never a surprise. I spend the next thirty minutes doing paperwork with Trudy. She goes about the routine with an air of importance, careful to convey the reality that her rank is far superior to mine. As I drive away, I glance at the forlorn windows of Quiet Haven and wonder, as always, how long I will work there. My average is about four months.

My temporary home in Clanton is a two-room apartment in what was once a flophouse but is now a decaying apartment building one block off the town square. The ad described it as furnished, but during my initial walk-through I saw only an army-surplus cot in the bedroom, a pink vinyl sofa in the den, and a dinette set near the sofa with a round table about the size of a large pizza. There’s also a tiny stove that doesn’t work and a very old refrigerator that barely does. For such amenities I promised to pay to the owner, Miss Ruby, the sum of $20 a week, in cash.

Whatever. I’ve seen worse, but not by much.

“No parties,” Miss Ruby said with a grin as we shook hands on the deal. She’s seen her share of parties. Her age is somewhere between fifty and eighty. Her face is ravaged less by age than by
hard living and an astounding consumption of cigarettes, but she fights back with layers of foundation, blush, rouge, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and a daily drenching of a perfume that, when mixed with the tobacco smoke, reminds me of the odor of dried, stale urine that’s not uncommon in nursing homes.

Not to mention the bourbon. Just seconds after we shook hands, Miss Ruby said, “How about a little toddy?” We were in the den of her apartment on the first floor, and before I could answer, she was already headed for the liquor cabinet. She poured a few ounces of Jim Beam into two tumblers and deftly added soda water, and we clinked glasses. “A highball for breakfast is the best way to start the day,” she said, taking a gulp. It was 9:00 a.m.

She fired up a Marlboro as we moved to the front porch. She lives alone, and it was soon obvious to me that she was a very lonely woman. She just wanted someone to talk to. I rarely drink alcohol, never bourbon, and after a few sips my tongue was numb. If the whiskey had any impact on her, it wasn’t obvious as she went on and on about people in Clanton I would never meet. After thirty minutes, she rattled her ice and said, “How ’bout some more Jimmy?” I begged off and left soon thereafter.