Rules for Life (4 page)

“Mrs. Patterson, this is, uh, fascinating,” I said, thinking that her soft little voice had most likely been drowned out by Mrs. Mac's hissing. Mrs. Patterson could talk for two paragraphs without taking a breath because she didn't waste any energy on volume. “I just need to check on something.”

“That's all right,” she said. She patted her hair. “I'll go to the ladies and check my hair.”

Check her hair? Her hair never changed. Like Mrs. Mac's, it wouldn't move in a tornado. Mrs. Patterson had a head full of lavender-tinged curls so stiff they could have doubled as a bike helmet.

Mrs. Mac was waiting in the hall. “I'm sorry for interrupting, dear,” she said, “but the bus will be leaving soon.”

“That's okay,” I said. “What is it?”

“I need to borrow a screwdriver—a Phillips head. It's the one with a cross, not the one with the little square—that's a Robertson.”

“What do you need a screwdriver for?” I asked.

She looked around, leaned forward and whispered, “My toaster oven is on the fritz.”

“But doesn't Oak Manor have some kind of maintenance person to fix things?”

“Jerry.” Mrs. Mac snorted. “A secret goes in his ear and right out his mouth. And even if it didn't, it would take him at least a week to get around to me, and I only have enough muffins for two days.”

She looked at me as though that had all made perfect sense. I'd been hanging around the Seniors Center long enough to know that old people's brains make leaps in logic the rest of us can't follow. I held up both hands. “First of all, you can buy muffins here. And second, what secret?”

Mrs. Mac was already shaking her head. “No, no, no, dear. The ones they sell here are made with wheat bran. It's too hard on Edgar's colon. I use oat bran.”

Edgar?

“Who's Edgar?” I rubbed the space between my eyebrows and wondered what it felt like when all the blood vessels in your brain popped.

Mrs. Mac reached for one of my hands and folded her two around it. There were brown liver spots on the backs of her hands and the veins bulged through the skin, but her fingers were strong holding on to mine. “Try to pay attention, dear,” she said. “Edgar Jamer. You know. He uses a walking stick instead of a cane and he wears a hairpiece that looks like the backside of a cat.” She lowered her voice. “He's not fooling anyone with it.”

I let out a slow breath. “And why are you making muffins for him?”

“That's what he has for breakfast. Plus a bowl of fruit and a glass of hot water with lemon.” Her voice went to a whisper again. “He has a problem staying regular.”

“Why isn't he eating breakfast in the dining room with everyone else?” Mrs. Mac and a lot of the other seniors at the center lived in an assisted living complex. They each had their own small apartments, but all the meals were served in a big dining room.

“Well, having him join us for breakfast wasn't my idea. Sarah showed up with him in tow one morning. She calls him her boyfriend. Isn't that a ridiculous word to use when you're talking about an eighty-four-year-old man?”

I glanced back through the half-open door. Mrs. Patterson, a.k.a. Sarah, was still in the bathroom with her hairspray, enlarging the hole in the ozone layer. “So you're making breakfast for people in your room?” I asked.

“Just Sarah and Edgar. And Barbara Miller. And Edith Turner—I don't think you've met her, dear.” She was still holding my hand, and she gave it a squeeze before she let go.

“Why don't you all go to the dining room?” I asked.

She pursed her lips. “They mean well, but … the coffee is always that decaffeinated kind. There's never any sausage or bacon—too much cholesterol. And the eggs aren't even real eggs.” She looked at me, defiant. “I'm seventy-nine years old. If I want to be killed by a sausage that's no one's business but mine.”

My mouth went into contortions so I wouldn't laugh and I had to cough a couple of times before I could trust myself to talk. “But you're not supposed to be cooking in your room,” I finally said. “I get it. That's the secret.”

“They have the idea we're a bunch of feeble ninnies who'll set ourselves on fire.” It's difficult to look indignant when you're barely over five feet tall, but she was giving it her best effort.

I got a mental picture of Mrs. Mac trying to hot-wire her toaster oven. Not good. “Will you be home tonight?” I asked.

She was already smiling. “Yes.”

“I'll be there about seven thirty.”

“You are a dear girl,” she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. She smelled like lavender and those tiny red candy hearts they only sell around Valentine's Day.

I shook my finger at her. “Don't touch that toaster oven.”

She gave me a little wave and headed for the lounge with short, fast steps, singing
“
Start Me Up,” just under her breath.

8

“Why am I doing this?” Rafe asked, reaching behind the seat for his backpack.

“Because you're a nice guy,” I said as I got out on my side of the car. “Because you used to be a Boy Scout and you never got over that good deed thing. Because you don't want an old lady burning down half a city block.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him over sideways so I could kiss his cheek. “And because you love me.”

Rafe hiked the backpack onto one shoulder and put his free arm around me. “I'm not sure I can fix it,” he said.

“I don't care about that,” I said, leaning into his body and matching my steps to his as we walked. “I just don't want Mrs. Mac trying to do it and then ending up setting this place on fire.”

“You like her.”

“Yeah, I do. She never talks about her ‘ailments' or complains that all the kids today are on drugs. You should hear how some of the old people at the center talk.”

We walked through the double doors into an area that reminded me of a hotel lobby. “We're here to see Rose McKenzie,” I said to the woman behind the fake marble counter.

“She's in 308,” the woman said, giving me one of those not-quite-real smiles you get from people who have jobs that require them to be pleasant all day. She pointed. “Just take the elevators over there.”

The door to Mrs. Mac's apartment was a glossy dark blue. Across the hall the door was peapod green, and farther down I could see one that was shiny yellow. Was that so nobody ended up in the wrong apartment?

I rang the doorbell. There was a tiny wreath of red berries around the peephole. In a moment Mrs. Mac opened the door. “Hello, dear,” she said. Her smile was the warm, real kind that made you smile back. “Did you bring it?” she whispered.

“Even better,” I said, grabbing Rafe by the sleeve and pulling him next to me. “Mrs. McKenzie, this is my boyfriend, Rafe.”

“Hello, Rafe,” she said, turning toward him.

“Hi,” he said, already charmed.

She gestured at the backpack. “Are those your tools?”

He nodded.

“Got a soldering iron in there?” She lowered her voice to a whisper again and laid her hand on his arm.

Rafe grinned. “Uh-huh.”

“What else?” she asked, looking up at him, her head cocked to one side.

For a second I got a flash of how beautiful she must have been when she was young. And then I realized she was flirting with Rafe. He seemed to like it.

I followed them into the apartment. They were talking about elements and voltage meters and Phillips head screwdrivers. I was pretty much being ignored.

I kicked off my shoes and wandered around. Like Mrs. Mac, the place was small and warm. There was a tiny blue flowered sofa, heaped with bright pillows, and a matching chair at one end of the room. A round wooden table and four chairs sat next to the window.

The kitchen was just a small stretch of counter with an equally small sink and a few cupboards. The fridge was the kind you'd find in a motel room.

There were pictures everywhere—on a small, square table between the sofa and the chair, along one wide window ledge— of her children and grandchildren I guessed: a chubby baby with mushed peas spiking his hair like gel, a little girl with her arms flung around Mrs. Mac's neck, their faces pressed together. And me. There among all the other pictures on that little table was one of me, in a small pewter frame. It had to have been taken at the center. I turned around. “Mrs. McKenzie, where did you—”

“That's it,” Rafe proclaimed. He propped an elbow on the countertop and grinned at Mrs. Mac.

“Splendid,” she said, clapping her hands together.

“That was fast. What is it?” I asked, forgetting about the photograph.

“Just needs a new element,” Rafe said. He looked at his watch. “You know, Eastman Supply doesn't close until nine o'clock. I could just zip over there and they might have one. It'll only take me ten minutes.”

He was already pulling on his jacket. “Be right back,” he added as the door closed behind him.

“I like him,” Mrs. Mac said, turning to me.

“I know,” I said. “You were flirting.”

“I was not,” she said, but she couldn't keep from smiling. She moved toward the sofa. “Come sit down.”

I sat next to her. She reached over and gave my cheek a little pat. “Thank you so much for helping me, Isabelle. I didn't know how I was going to manage breakfast.”

“They could go to the dining room,” I said.

“I suppose this all seems kind of silly to you,” she said. “A bunch of crotchety old people who have to have their breakfast just so.”

“You could never be crotchety,” I said. “And I'll tell you a secret. I've been eating the same breakfast since I was four. Shredded wheat and banana.”

“We're all creatures of habit in one way or another, my dear.”

“Isn't it a lot of work for you?” I asked, curling one leg and a sock foot underneath me.

“I'm just baking a few muffins and scrambling an egg or two,” she said. “It gives me a purpose. Keeps me from staying in bed half the day. And then I listen to everyone go on about their aches and pains and I see that I'm in pretty good shape for my age.”

“I hope I'm just like you when I'm your age.”

She leaned over and hugged me. All of a sudden there was a big lump in my throat that I had to swallow twice to get down.

“So where did you get the picture of me?” I asked.

She reached over and picked up the frame. “Edgar Jamer took that. He used to be a photographer for the newspaper.” She hesitated. “You don't mind me having it, do you?”

I shook my head. “I'm … honored.” I could feel the lump again. “Who are all these other people?” I asked, gesturing at the table.

Mrs. Mac pointed to the baby with the punk rock hair. “That's Dustin, my newest grandson. And the picture next to it is his sister, Emily Rose.”

We were still looking at the photographs when there was a soft tap and Rafe leaned around the door. He had a big guess-what-I've-done smirk on his face.

“You found one,” Mrs. Mac exclaimed.

Rafe stuck out his arm. He was holding a plastic shopping bag. The smirk got even bigger and he nodded.

“Well, then, let's get started.” Mrs. Mac was already on her feet.

I hugged my knees to my chest and watched the two of them fishing pliers and screwdrivers out of Rafe's backpack. For once there wasn't anything I had to fix. And I thought, Maybe I'll just stay here. Maybe I'll make Rafe and Mrs. Mac my family and I'll just never go home again.

9

I'd pretty much stayed out of my dad's way all week. It wasn't hard. I think he'd been avoiding me too.

When I got home from school Friday afternoon, a dirty white panel truck was in the driveway, the back door rolled up. There was a stack of waffle-patterned pads and a pile of plastic inside.

I dropped my things in the kitchen. I could hear voices. “Drop your end … now let it slide … easy … easy!”

I stepped into the hallway. Two men were bringing a double mattress down the stairs. The guy in front had long hair, mostly gray streaked with dark, pulled back in a ponytail. “Hi,” he said when he saw me. He jerked his head toward the front door. “Could you get that for us?”

“Sure.” I swung the door open and stepped out to hold the screen.

“Ready? Lift,” Ponytail said to the guy in the rear as he got to the bottom step. “Thanks,” he added as he passed me. Then, “Careful, there are seven steps here,” to his helper.
He
had shaggy blond hair and lots of intriguing bulges in his red plaid shirt. He gave me a once-over. I gave it right back and he almost tripped on the second step.

“Hey, watch it, Paul,” Ponytail called out sharply as the mattress listed to the right.

Paul gave me an embarrassed grin and I grinned back. I watched them move across the lawn to the truck. I watched the way Paul's shoulders moved as he lifted. And suddenly I remembered that two men I had never seen before were putting furniture from my house into their truck.

I looked back into the house. Dad was partway down the stairs carrying a couple of long metal things.

“What's going on?” I asked.

He waited until he was level with me before he answered. “They're from the shelter. I gave them the bed.”

“What bed?”

“Mine.” He didn't look at me. “I have new stuff for the bedroom.”

“You mean for Anne.” So he must have asked her and she must have said yes.

“Yes. The big chest and the headboard are in the basement. They're yours whenever you want them.” Dad handed the two metal rails to Ponytail, who thanked him and headed back to the truck.

“What about Jason?”

“It's okay with him.”

“Uh … thanks, then,” I said.

I watched while Ponytail covered the mattress with plastic and wrapped a couple of pads around the rails. Paul mostly stood around being decorative, glancing back once in a while to see if I was still watching. I gave him a little wave as the truck drove away.