Poison Heart (8 page)

The smell of the grilled chicken made Claire realize how hungry she was. “It worked out.”

“On a different subject, I had a long talk with the doctor about my mother.” Rich put the last piece of chicken on the platter and looked up at Claire.

“What did he say?”

“The good news is that my mother has recovered better than they could have hoped. They have even had her up and walking a few steps. But the bad news is they want her to leave the hospital in the next couple of days. We have to talk about what we’re going to do with her. She can’t decide for herself.”

Claire felt as though the platter of chicken had gotten very heavy. “What do you want to do?”

He continued to watch Claire. “She can’t go home now, not in her condition. She can’t take care of herself. She’s too far away for us to be running back and forth to help her. And she’s going to need therapy for a while.”

Claire knew what she had to say, so she forced the words out of her mouth. “Do you want her to come and stay with us?”

He had his answer ready. “Not in a million years.”

CHAPTER 8

A week after Beatrice’s stroke, Rich picked her up at the hospital to take her to Lakeside Manor. As the pickup truck barreled down the freeway, Rich noticed that Beatrice was sitting crooked. The traffic on the freeway was so heavy, he couldn’t stop to arrange her better. But then, everything about her was crooked. Even her smile seemed to slide off her face. At least she had smiled at him this morning when he came to pick her up.

“How’re you doing, Mom?” he asked now.

She jolted a little at the sound of his voice, then turned her head slowly toward him. She still had a significant deficit on her left side, the doctors had told him; he wasn’t even sure she could see him.

“I’m tired,” she said.

“We’re getting close.”

“Where are we going?” she asked in her new flat voice.

He had told her three times already this morning and many times the previous days. But she didn’t remember much. “I think I told you. You’re going to go stay at Lakeside Manor, a very nice nursing home in Pepin, only a few miles from us. That way Claire and I can keep an eye on you.”

“I want to go home.”

“I know you do. Mrs. Swanson is watching your apartment. You’ll be going back there soon.”

“Don’t lie to me, Rich.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“She doesn’t know how to water my African violets.”

“I’ll be checking on things. You can tell me how.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know.”

There was silence. Her head nodded. She slept.

After driving through Wabasha, Minnesota, they crossed over the delta of the Mississippi and the Chippewa and into Wisconsin. He saw a lone fisherman far back in the sloughs, but the season was winding down. The sumac, the harbinger of fall, was starting to turn red on the lower edges of the woodlands.

Off to the right an egret lifted its head out of the muck and walked a few tilting steps. The walk reminded him of his mother’s attempts at locomotion. She could stand up, but she was hard put to walk more than two or three steps.

He wondered how long she would have to stay at the nursing home. She would get some rehabiliation there, but he wasn’t really sure she’d ever be fit to go home again. He could hardly stand to think about it. His feisty mother stuck so far from all she loved, from the good life she had created after her husband had died.

When they got to the nursing home, the director came out to greet them and sent out a nurse to help transfer Beatrice into a wheelchair.

The big blond girl looked like she was just out of high school. She carried her weight well and transferred Beatrice out of the car and into the chair as if the old woman weighed no more than a Chihuahua.

“That was slick,” Rich commented.

“I’ll teach you how to do the swivel transfer if you like.”

Rich nodded but was nervous that if he tried such a manuever with his mother he might drop her. Rich got out her suitcase and followed behind the nurse and the wheelchair. He had had to pack the suitcase himself and had tried to put in it all the things she might need. They had given him a list of clothes to bring: seven nightgowns, seven of everything. It appeared they would take it a week at a time.

“I’m Bonnie,” the young nurse told him. “I work every weekday. So I’ll be helping with your mother on a regular basis. She seems like she’s doing real well.”

“I’m right here,” said Beatrice.

Rich felt his heart lift. A little of her old spunk was a good sign.

Bonnie laughed and said, “Okay, then, where would you like to be? Would you like to sit up for a while?”

“No, I’m tired. Put me in bed.”

“Certainly.” The young woman restrapped the transfer belt around Beatrice’s waist, cinched it, and hoisted Beatrice up and pivoted her until she was right next to the bed. Then she eased Rich’s mother down until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Grabbing Beatrice’s feet, she picked them up and put them on the bed. Beatrice sprawled back onto a pile of two pillows.

“If you need anything, press your call button. I’ll be right down the hall.”

Bonnie walked out. Rich looked around the room. Two windows faced south and the sun came in through the Levolor blinds. The floor was a beige-speckled linoleum and reminded Rich of an Easter egg candy he had eaten when he was young. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a lounge chair and a battered chest of drawers. Why hadn’t he thought to bring some personal items to soften the room?

“Tell me what you would like and I’ll bring some of your things here to make this place more your own.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“Mom, a few of your photographs, some books, your afghan . . .”

She kept shaking her head through his list of possibilities.

“I know—I’ll bring some of your violets.”

“Don’t bring the violets.”

“Mom.”

“Don’t bring the violets here.” She sounded as if she was going to cry, which unnerved him more than anything else he had witnessed. His mother never cried.

“I won’t bring the violets.”

“Rich, I don’t want to be like this.”

He looked down at his mother, lying crookedly in the hospital bed, her bad arm in a sling. She reminded him of a poorly stuffed animal in an old diorama. He could even imagine the signage:
SUPINE EIGHTY-YEAR-OLD FEMALE HOMO SAPIENS. NO LONGER QUITE RIGHT IN HER BODY.
“I understand.”

“Can you help me? Can you help me get out of here?”

He bent down close to her. Communicating with her now was like talking to a frightened animal. You had to get close enough to her so she could feel your presence, and then talk soft and low. He took her limp left hand and gently rocked it. “I can. But let’s give it a few weeks. See how you do. I have great faith in you. I think you’re stronger than you even know.”

Beatrice looked around the empty room. “This isn’t where I want to die.”

Beatrice slept so hard that she felt she had dropped off the face of the earth and fallen—
splat
—on the sky. When she dragged her eyelids up, she could see that she was in a strange room and that there was light shining in from a doorway. She needed to know where she was. She found her glasses on a table by her bed and, with difficulty, set them on her nose.

A clock next to the bed indicated eight o’clock, but Beatrice wasn’t sure if that meant morning or evening. When she looked out the window, she saw it was dark, so it must be evening.

She knew she was not in the hospital. It was too quiet for the hospital. But it wasn’t her apartment; she knew that for sure.

Then she remembered where Rich had taken her. A nursing home. She couldn’t believe she had ended up at one. She had hoped to die in her own bed one night without even knowing, to move gently from sleeping to nonexistence or whatever else came after. It was enough to make a person cry to find herself suddenly in a nursing home.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to get out of bed by herself. If she could just get someone to help her . . . Through the crack in the door, she could see a woman coming down the hall. If she could get her attention . . .

Beatrice made a small noise, like a yelp. After she made it she felt ashamed. What kind of business was that, making yelping noises in the middle of the night? The woman stopped and looked toward her door but evidently couldn’t see into the darkness of the room.

But Beatrice could see the woman. She didn’t look like a nurse; she wasn’t wearing a nurse’s uniform. She had blond frizzy hair and was rather stout. She was carrying a large purse. She went into the room across the hallway from Beatrice’s room.

Beatrice put her head back on her pillow. She was so tired. Even holding her head up made her tired. Even keeping her eyes open.

She remembered who was in the room across from her. She had met him in the hall when the nurse pushed her to dinner. His name was Walter. He made her situation look positive. He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t walk. He had a tube in his stomach. His head bobbled on the end of his neck like a flower blowing in the breeze.

She wondered why the woman was visiting him so late. She wondered why she was staying in this strange hotel. But these thoughts were like swallows flitting, skimming over the surface of her brain, picking up insects and flying on. They didn’t rest until they slept. She slept.

So many people were visiting Walter these days. They would stand at the edges of the room and nod and wave to him. They didn’t say anything. He recognized a few of them: his third-grade schoolteacher, Miss Lillehelm; Mr. Ramstead, the postman; Howard Levy, who had fought next to him in World War II. They came and went like ripples on a pond. They comforted him with their presence.

He was staring at them when Patty Jo came into the room. He could tell it was her even though she didn’t turn the light on because she had a heavy walk and she swore when she bumped into a chair.

He had tried to please Patty Jo, but he didn’t think she was very happy with him. She could be mean if she didn’t get what she wanted. He had learned not to oppose her on anything. It just wasn’t worth it. He went along with everything she wanted after what had happened to Florence.

She sat down next to the bed and reached out and took his hand.

Walter was surprised because she didn’t tend to touch him much. He wished she would touch him more. He felt so adrift.

Patty Jo was holding his wrist like the nurses did. She was taking his pulse. He looked at her. She didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t bother to try to say anything to her. It was too frustrating.

He was lucky to have Patty Jo. She had promised to take care of everything for him. He was worried about the farm, but he was sure she would never sell it. She knew he wanted to go back there soon. Margaret would tell her.

He wondered where Margaret was. She hadn’t come to see him in a few days. He tried to ask about Margaret. The noise he made sounded like a cow mooing.

Patty Jo put down his hand. “You know I can’t understand you. I just want you to know I’m doing this because of Margaret. If she’d let things be the way I planned, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

The people lining the walls were waving again. He blinked his eyes at them. It was his code to tell them he could see them.

Patty Jo sat down next to him and leaned in close. “It’s time to go to sleep, Walter.”

He could fall asleep so easily these days. All he had to do was close his eyes. But then he couldn’t see Patty Jo or his friends.

He blinked his eyes at her.

“Don’t look at me like that, Walter. I’m doing this for your own good.”

Patty Jo had always reminded him of his mother. That had been a favorite phrase of his mother’s: “doing this for your own good.” It usually meant something bad was going to happen.

CHAPTER 9

The Moravian Church was tucked down a winding road on the bluff top. Claire had always loved spotting the belfry of the small white church in the distance, but she had never seen the interior. As she turned onto the dirt road that led to the church, she scared up a flock of turkeys. The birds looked prehistoric to her, walking in their awkward, stilted manner. After they scattered off the road, she parked about a block from the church. The parking lot was full, and cars and pickup trucks lined the road.

When Claire walked into the church, she saw that it had raked seating with built-in stadium chairs that reminded her of an old movie theater. All the chairs were filled—there looked to be about one hundred of them—and people were lined up along the walls. She found Rich standing near the entrance waiting for her.

“What a funny old church,” she whispered in his ear when he dipped his head.

“It won’t be here much longer,” he whispered back.

She looked questioningly at him.

“The congregation has dwindled to the point that they can’t keep it going. They’re about to desanctify the church.”

“How sad,” Claire murmured.

She looked over the people in the seats—most of them were over sixty years old—and recognized many.

Down front she could see three people sitting in the first row: Margaret and Mark Underwood, and Patty Jo Tilde. Margaret was dressed in a black dress, Mark had on a dark suit, and Patty Jo was wearing a red-flowered top with her blond hair pulled back and long dangling earrings.

Margaret had called Claire with the news of her father’s death. She said that should take care of the problems with the estate. Margaret was quite sure that her father’s will left most of her father’s money to Patty Jo, but the farm would go to Margaret and Mark.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Claire told her.

“Yes, I’m sad that he’s gone.” Margaret paused, then said, “But I’m so glad he isn’t trapped in that worthless body anymore. He hated what had happened to him. He was frustrated all the time.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for helping me.”

“It’s my job.”

“You went beyond your job.”

“If I did, don’t tell the sheriff.”

Margaret chuckled, then gave Claire the information about the funeral.

A mahogany casket sat at the front of the church with Walter Tilde laid out in its white interior. His eyes were closed and his thin white hair was slicked back. His forehead still bore the signs of the tan mark from his feed cap.

“Did you pay your respects to Walter?” Claire asked Rich.

He nodded.

The pastor came in the side door, and everyone stood to sing the first hymn. Claire listened to the song and watched the three people in the front row. Mark and Margaret were leaning into each other, sharing a hymnal and singing. Patty Jo was standing alone, holding no hymnal, silent.

Claire wondered what made the woman tick. What had possessed her to try to take the farm away from Walter’s daughter? How had she persuaded him to sign over power of attorney to her in the first place? She hoped for Margaret’s sake that Patty Jo would take her share of Walter’s estate and leave the county. She hoped it for her own sake. She didn’t like the woman.

Margaret had decided not to argue with Patty Jo about cremating her father. She didn’t think it was what her father wanted, but she didn’t see how it could matter. Patty Jo seemed fine with Walter’s ashes being buried next to Florence, and that was all that really was important to Margaret. She wanted her parents to be united again.

The day after the funeral she was surprised how relieved she felt. Mark had told her not to bother with milking the goats in the morning. He would do it. He wanted her to take it easy and relax. He patted her on the shoulder as he left to do the chores.

“It’s all over, Margie,” he said. “Your father’s at peace.”

“Yes, I think he is.”

Mark stopped at the door. “You know the first thing I’m going to do with your father’s farm?”

“What?”

“Plow under that field of soybeans. It’s about composted by now. Be good for the soil.”

Margaret smiled. Having the farm would be so good for Mark.

Five minutes later, the phone rang.

It was her father’s attorney, Mr. Matthews. “I’m afraid I have bad news, Margaret.”

Margaret’s mind went blank. What more could possibly happen? She asked, “What now?”

“Well, it appears that Patty Jo has her own lawyer, which is news to me. He called me this morning to say that Walter had written out another will. It postdates the one your father signed with me.”

“What does this mean?” She knew, but she had to ask.

“The new will takes precedence, I’m afraid,” Mr. Matthews paused, then tried again, “Margaret, I’m sorry to have to tell you that everything in your father’s estate goes to Patty Jo.”

Margaret looked at the table and noticed that Mark had spilled coffee on the tablecloth. A dark stain spread out from his coffee cup.

“Margaret?”

“Everything?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Does that mean the farm? Does she get the farm?”

“Yes, I’m afraid she gets it all.”

“But that isn’t what my father wanted.”

He sighed. Mr. Matthews had known her father a long time. “I know.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I’m afraid not. I had this lawyer fax over the new will before I called you. It looks legitimate to me. I checked and it was dated a week before your father’s stroke, so we have to assume he was competent.” Mr. Matthews stopped, then added, “I’m sorry, Margaret. I’d like to be able to help.”

“These things happen,” she said, because she knew she had to say something. She couldn’t blame Mr. Matthews. The only person to blame was herself. She should have known. She should have talked things over with her father after he married Patty Jo. But she had never guessed there was any need.

The lawyer said he’d send her a copy of the will and that she should call him if she had any questions. She thanked him and was glad when he said goodbye.

She was still wearing her bathrobe. It was going to be such a nice morning. She got a sponge out of the sink and ran hot water on it and squirted some dish soap on it. Then she tried to get the stain out of the tablecloth. Coffee was a bad stain. It faded but never really went away.

Then she stopped scrubbing. She looked down at her hands and started to cry. She didn’t want to have to tell Mark the bad news.