Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe (9 page)

At 7 o’clock the following morning, they wheeled Harriet into the operating room.

The night before, I had called all three of our children and gave each the bad news. Although I told them I’d let them know how things went, I was proud that all three insisted they would be on their way here as soon as they could get flights out. By the time they arrived, Harriet had been operated on and had been returned to her room from the recovery room.

Dr. Baldwin said everything had gone well. When the first words out of Harriet’s mouth on waking up from anesthesia were a slurred, “Are you getting enough to eat?” I knew she was on her way to recovery.

To me, her progress was remarkable. She was up in a wheelchair the afternoon following surgery, took a few steps with a walker the next day, and was sent from the hospital five days later to the Bowers’
Care
Center
. The wonders of modern medicine.

We must have done something right in raising our kids. They couldn’t have been more solicitous or caring. Wendy was either at Harriet’s bedside or shopping to keep our refrigerator stocked for snacks and lunches. Ken and Andy chauffeured me back and forth to and from the hospital while Harriet was there. In addition, they fixed what was broken around the apartment. They wouldn’t let me bend to pick up anything that dropped. I felt like an old king. The “old” part was right on.

After seeing that Harriet was settled in the
Care
Center
, Wendy and Ken went back home to take care of their work and families.

Andy stayed on for another day. He was a fix-it guy. His day job was as an executive in a computer company.

While Harriet was resting, he was back with me in the apartment. I said, “While you’re here, take a look at my computer. It’s become so slow I can read a book until it responds to my commands.”

He turned it on and shook his head. “The desktop screen is so full of icons I’m surprised you can get anything done. You don’t need all the junk you’ve got in it.”

Any time I’d seen the internet message “Download Free,” I clicked on it. I’d used the computer primarily to keep my financial data and writing letters. I’d forgotten what most of the icons represented.

Andy worked on it for about half an hour. His fingers flew over the keys while he was saying, “You don’t need this.” Or “Do you actually play mahjong on this machine?” He uninstalled all the junk I’d accumulated. When he was finished, the desktop looked as clean as when I’d bought the machine. I couldn’t believe the speed with which it responded to commands.

He said, “I see you have an old scanner. You have a scanner built into your printer. What do you need the other one for?”

“I guess I don’t need it.”

“Let me take it. I was going to buy one for Jill.”

Jill, his oldest, was a junior in high school.

“Take it.” I was glad to get rid of any of the hardware that cluttered up my study.

Andy said, “I’m going to need a tote bag for it. I just brought a small valise.”

“I have one you can have. It’s down in my storage closet in the Bowers basement.”

Andy was taking a plane home at four that afternoon. I told him I’d drive him to the airport.

We went down to the room where each resident had been assigned a storage closet. I had kept a key to the lock on the ring with my apartment entry card. Now, when I looked for it, the key was missing. I had no idea where it was.

 
I said, “I’ll call maintenance and have them saw the lock off.”

Andy inspected the lock. “Wait a minute. No need to saw it off. I can open it.”

“How?”

“I saw a few screwdrivers in the apartment. I’ll run up and get what I need.”

I waited. When he came back he had a small thin-bladed screwdriver and a paper clip he’d unbent.

He said, “I’ll have the lock picked in no time.”

“Where did you learn to pick locks?”

“Hey, remember I’m an engineer.”

“Computers I can understand. But picking locks?”

“One of the courses I took was ‘How locks work’.” He jiggled the lock. “This one is a simple five-pin job.”

“Of course.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but two minutes after he worked on it with the screwdriver and paper clip, the lock popped open.

I knew Andy could do a lot of things, but a safecracker…?

We retrieved the tote bag from the storage closet.

Andy said, “We’ll have to get a new lock. You don’t have a key for this one, and I don’t think you want to pick it every time you want anything from the storage closet.”

“Home Depot?”

“Naw. We can get one much cheaper at the 99 Cent store.”

This kid scared me with his multi-talents.

 
The new lock we bought for 99 cents was better than the one I’d had.

Back in the apartment, I asked Andy to show me how he opened the old lock.

He did the lock-picking trick again, and I tried to duplicate the maneuvers. It took me half an hour with his coaching, but Voila! The lock popped open.

“Practice on the old lock, Dad. Before you know it you can qualify as a certified thief.”

He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to have to get to the airport. Let’s go down to the
Care
Center
. I want to say goodbye to Mom before I go.”

 
As I did with the other two kids, I sent him off with a hug and my thanks for all he’d done.

Yes, the way they all turned out, we must have done something right.

I was spending a good part of every day with Harriet in the
Care
Center
, watching while the therapist supervised her rehabilitation. While she rested, or in the evening after she had gone to bed, I went back to my apartment.

Using my old storage closet lock, I was having fun practicing the lock-picking Andy had taught me. Getting pretty good at it, too. Using a screw driver and unbent paper clip I could spring the lock in about three minutes.

It was while I was “picking,” I realized I’d been so occupied with Harriet and her recovery over the past two weeks, I hadn’t thought about what was going on at the Assisted Living floor. The hidden door flashed through my mind. I was pretty sure the outside access to it was in the garage abutting the
Care
Center
building.

Hm-m-m. Was there a chance that with my newfound talent the locked door was no longer a challenge? Andy had assured me that he’d used it to open the front door of his house one time when he’d misplaced his key.

Should I give it a try?

Nah. Even if I
could
open that door, what did I expect to find? Stupid idea, forget it.

Until the next day.

Carrying the burglary tools of my trade, I entered the garage and looked both ways to be sure no one was around. I cautiously climbed the stairs to the second floor landing. In front of the locked door I rubbed my hands together, and flexed and extended my fingers like a concert pianist before a recital. Test time.

Andy had taught me well. Five minutes after working the lock, I heard the deadbolt click and cracked open the door. I was in!

Now what?

I opened the door about an inch. Footsteps!

I pulled the door shut, heard the lock click shut, and ran down the stairs. Outside the garage I took a deep breath.

I guess I wasn’t meant to be a second-story burglar after all.

Was I chicken? You bet.

Until the next day.

This time, I was scared away by a truck unloading provisions at a loading dock inside the garage.

I waited across the street until the truck pulled out of the garage, then peeked in. I was alone.

Up the stairs. Picked the lock. Cracked open the door. Just enough to see that it opened to the corridor I remembered from the last time I was in the Assisted Living facility as a legitimate visitor. No one was around. The place was so quiet, the slight creak of the door sounded to me like a cannon.

I put one foot inside and was about to put the other in when I realized that if I was inside and the door locked behind me, I was toast. I didn’t know where the keyhole on the inside of the door was. If I had to leave in a hurry….

I searched my pockets for something to keep the door slightly ajar. The only thing I could find was a pen. I placed it on the floor between the sill and the edge of the door and tested to see if it worked. It did.

I crept inside. I was in the L–wing of the corridor where Chet had shown me the activities room. In fact, three feet from me was the door.

Was there a lecture or movie going on? I listened at the door. Silence. The door was unlocked, the room was empty. I went inside to catch my breath and eased the door shut behind me. Alone in the room amidst rows of empty chairs, I tried to figure out what to do next. Before I had a chance to decide, I heard voices in the hallway.

As my grandmother used to say,
oy vey
English translation: Oh shit!

The voices grew louder. Sounded like a man—no, two men. I recognized one voice, Chet. The other, possibly Kurt Berman. They grew still louder. Right outside the door.

I expected to see the door fly open. What excuse could I give for being here? What had I gotten myself into? I held my knees to keep them from trembling.

I was unable to make out what the men were saying. Had they noticed that the hidden door was ajar, held open by the pen I’d used to prevent it from locking, with me inside?

The next thing I heard was the snick of a door either opening or closing. I put my ear to the activities room door. I could no longer hear them talking.

I waited a few moments, then cracked the door open and peeked out. No one there. Where had they gone? The possibilities were: One, they’d gone through the hidden door. But the pen I’d used as a stopper was still in place and the hidden door still slightly ajar as I had left it. The second possibility, now a probability, was that they had gone into the room across the hall. I assumed the door across the hall led to another apartment, but looking now I saw a sign on the door, “Staff Only.”

One thing I knew for a fact was that they were no longer in sight. The other fact I knew was I had to get the hell out of the Assisted Living facility. And quickly.

I tiptoed out of the Activities Room, opened the hidden door, retrieved my pen, and let myself out. I closed the door behind me as quietly as I could, but still heard a snap as it relocked. I prayed that no one else heard it, as I took the stairs down to the garage floor and sauntered out of the garage trying to slow my breathing and my thumping heart.

Never again. That was it. Finis.

Back in the sanctuary of my apartment, Harriet was watching TV. She was now using only a cane, although half the time she forgot it and walked unaided with only a slight limp.

I leaned over her shoulder and gave the top of her head a loud and moist kiss.

She looked up. “What brought
that
on?

“It’s not your birthday?’

“No.”

“Our anniversary?”

She wrinkled her brow, shook her head, then a coy smile slowly took over. She glanced toward the bedroom. “In the middle of the afternoon? Like old times? You Devil.”

I opened my mouth to speak when the phone rang.

Harriet went for the phone while unbuttoning her blouse. She held up a finger. Wait.

I could wait another six months. Or had it been a year?

She put the phone to her ear. Listened for a moment, then, “Wendy, darling!” Harriet turned toward me. “It’s Wendy.”

I listened on the bedroom extension while Wendy asked Harriet how her hip was, how she felt in general, and assorted mother-daughter matters mostly concerning clothes.

I got in a few words, then, fully dressed, flopped on the bedspread and closed my eyes.

.Harriet joined me in the bedroom, the conversation with Wendy finally over,

I was drifting off to sleep and faintly heard her say, “Now where were we?”

Me? I was in dreamland.

About two weeks after my aborted attempt to invade the Assisted Living facility, I met Oliver Stevens in the elevator.

He said, “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you, Henry. I’m Chairman of the Health Services Committee. I remember you telling me that you’d been in the pharmaceutical industry. We need another member for the committee. How about coming on board?”

“Refresh my memory. What exactly do you do?” I wanted to know what I’d be getting in to before I made a commitment.

“We see if the residents in the health facilities have any problems.”

“You mean the
Care
Center
and the
Wellness
Center
?”

“You got it.”

I said, “If there
are
problems, what do you do about them?”

“We have meetings.”

Like all I needed was another meeting. When I retired, I swore off meetings. I’d had my share as CEO of the company. I said, “And the meetings take care of the problems?”

He stared at me as though I were a candidate for the nuthouse. “No, we report them to the Residents Council.”

“And they solve the problems?”

“No, they take it up with Bowers’ management.”

I said, “And management takes care of the problems?”

Oliver was getting fidgety. “Look, Henry, will you or won’t you?”

“Do what?”

He took a deep breath. I expected him to tell me to forget he asked. Instead, through gritted teeth he said, “Join our goddamn committee.”

I could see his fist clench. “Well,
 
if you put it that way…”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

I liked Oliver, but I could see I was about to make an enemy. “If you really want me, I’ll do it.”

He loosened up. “Great. We have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow.”

He told me where the meeting would be held.

As he started to walk away, I had a thought. “Oliver, is your committee responsible for Assisted Living too?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, it’s in the
Care
Center
building so I suppose we cover it. But what problems would the people in Assisted Living have? They’re basically well, except they need help with their Activities of Daily Living.”

I suppose he was right. Maybe the one having the problem was me.

The following day, I showed up at the Health Services Committee meeting. There were two other members besides Oliver and me.

One member reported that one of the
Care
Center
patients said she couldn’t get chocolate chip ice cream. They gave her Jell-O instead.

Oliver said, “We’ll refer it to Residents Council. Maybe they can work something out with the Diet Kitchen.”

Another patient had complained that the seat on her wheelchair was too hard.

Oliver pursed his lips, gazed at the ceiling, then looked at his committee. “Any suggestions?”

To this point, I hadn’t opened my mouth. I was about to suggest they fatten her up a little, when Mike, one of the committee members piped up. “How about getting her a cushion?”

“Excellent suggestion, Mike,” said Oliver.

Now, why couldn’t I think of that?

After several other serious problems had been solved by referring them to the Residents Council, who in turn would refer them to the administration, who would tell them they’d look into the matter, the meeting was adjourned.

While the other members filed out, I went up to Oliver. “I noticed nobody had said anything about the Assisted Living residents.”

Oliver shrugged. “I guess they didn’t have any problems.”

I wasn’t so sure. “Would it be all right if I checked?”

“Why?”

Because I thought something fishy was going on, that’s why. But I knew that wouldn’t fly, so I said, “So they wouldn’t feel that they were being neglected.”

He smiled and shook his head “If it’ll make you happy, go ahead.” Tolerant. He was probably sorry he’d ask me to join the committee.

Now that I had an opening, the following day I phoned Chet. I told him I was on the Health Committee and I was appointed to check on the patients. See if they had any complaints. So I stretched the truth a little.

Chet said, “Nobody from the committee has ever checked before. Why now?”

“Well you know Ollie. He takes his job seriously. Now, if was up to me…”

I heard Chet sigh. “What do you want to do?”

“I suppose I’d better ask each of the people in Assisted Living it they had any, you know, complaints.” I quickly added, “Or compliments.”

“I can save you the trouble. They don’t have any complaints.”

Because you have a lock on their mouths?

I said, “Well Chet, I’d be less than honest if I reported to the committee that I’d done the checking myself. You how it is.”

Fortunately, he
didn’t
know how it was. After a moment of hesitation he said, “All right. Let me check the calendar and I’ll let you know when’s the best time.”

I knew if I waited for him to call I’d be in Assisted Living myself—or dead. “I tell you, Chet, I’m in and out most of the days. I’ll call
you
.”

Take
that
, Buddy.