Going to the Bad (11 page)

An old, thin face smiled down at me. Mida's white hair had been cut short by someone who hadn't tried very hard to make it even. Some of the tips were still brunet so I guessed that the hatchet job had been done because Mida had stopped dyeing her hair.

“I'm Lilly.”

Her face lit up with a huge smile. “Lilies are one of my favorite flowers, second only to bougainvilleas, which are actually shrubs.” She thought for a moment. “The only trick with lilies is to make sure they get enough light. If it's too shady, the stems will stretch and lean toward the sun.”

“I didn't know that.”

“God plants everything where it needs to be, and we stretch toward the light.”

“That's very poetic.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Why don't you come in.”

“You mean through the window?”

She nodded. “Yes, please. I'd love to have company.”

I judged the distance up to the window and shook my head. “That may not be a good idea.”

“I'll make you coffee.”

“I don't drink coffee. You don't happen to have any Mountain Dew?”

“You really should come in.” She looked into the gray, rocky land behind me as though the bogeyman were out there. “It might not be safe for you.”

Christmas Eve, 3:23 p.m.

V
ague threats of danger are a terrific motivator. The
window was higher than I would have liked, but at least my being petite made fitting through the opening a cinch.

Once my torso was through, I took a breath and had second thoughts. The foul, stuffy air was so thick that I thought I might be able to push it away from me like water. The base of the odor seemed to be mildew, but layered on top of that I smelled air freshener, burnt plastic, and something else I feared was urine.

I knocked over an empty plastic bottle while dragging my legs into the house, but otherwise made it in without breaking anything.

“Thanks for speaking with me, Mida.” I picked up the bottle from the pink carpet. The label said Jean Naté by Revlon. “Is this what you're out of?”

“Am I?” She raised the empty bottle to her nose and inhaled the crusty remnants. “I've always used this instead of deodorant. I know vanity is a sin, but sometimes it's nice to feel like a lady. You know, pretty and pampered.”

Seeing Mida up close revealed a person far removed from the rituals of physical beauty. Not only had her hair been cut in short, uneven clumps, it was so thin in places that I could see her scalp. In a mean bit of irony, she had an excess of hair growing from her chin. A teenage boy attempting his first beard would have been jealous.

“I'm still a woman, you know.” Her eyes stayed locked on the bottle as a ripple of emotion went through her face. “It may sound silly to you, but a person needs these things. Otherwise they start to feel like they're not a human being anymore.”

I felt that I was intruding somewhere deeply private. I was in her bathroom, after all, and she wasn't even dressed in real clothes. Her faded pink housecoat was marked with old food stains, as well as recent ones. This was not how a woman, especially one of Mida's generation, would want to be seen by a stranger.

I placed a hand on her arm. Her thin flesh sagged under my hand and I felt the bone. “Do your daughter and grandson help you? Do they make sure you have everything you need?”

“I think I have an aide who helps me.”

I didn't know what to say. The Escalade was the only car, so I doubted anyone else was there.

“And if I ever need help, all I have to do is press this emergency button I wear around my neck and an ambulance will come.” She reached to her chest, but there was nothing there. “I don't understand.”

“Maybe you forgot to put it on today.”

“I hope they didn't get mad at me for pushing it by accident. They call before the ambulance comes, and I say
bougainvillea
if it's a false alarm. That's my secret code.”

I gestured toward the bathroom door. “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?”

Her face lit up. “Where are my manners? I bet you'd like some coffee?”

“I don't drink coffee.”

I followed her out of the bathroom and down a hallway. Fake-wood paneling covered the walls, and small paintings of butterflies covered that. They were nice, but the gold frames had a layer of dust.

“I'll get you something else then.” She glanced over her shoulder as she took uneven steps. “What's your name?”

“Lilly.”

She stopped in the kitchen and turned around with a big smile on her face. “I love lilies. They're one of my favorite flowers.”

The burnt smell was strongest here. Behind Mida I saw a large swatch of charred wall next to the stove.

“But you have to be sure and plant them in the sun,” she continued. “They don't tolerate a lot of shade.”

She turned back to the kitchen. “How about I make a pot of coffee?”

“I don't drink coffee.”

Mida didn't hear me. She was staring at the stove where strips of duct tape covered the burner controls. “I don't understand. Do you know where the coffeemaker is?”

“Come with me into the living room.” I backed up. “I'd like to talk with you about your brother, Carter.”

She relaxed and followed. “Carter has polio.”

What would it be like to live with and care for someone with dementia? Would I have the endurance to navigate this same treacherous path through mistakes, corrections, and frustration a million times a day? What if it were Rod? If we got married, I'd be making that kind of commitment. Could I do it?

“It must have been very hard for Carter.” I stopped in the living room. “Why don't we sit down and have a talk about him.”

Mida took a seat on the sofa. The blue fabric, like her housecoat and the rug, was covered in stains. “Carter didn't die like a lot of polio victims, but his one leg is all shrunk and bent back. Mother says it's why he doesn't have any friends, but I think he doesn't make an effort.”

I set down the gear bag and took out the camera, but changed my mind. Not only was it unethical to interview someone with a diminished capacity, but putting images of her on television looking the way she did would be heartless.

I zipped the bag up again. “Carter's friends are exactly what I'd like to talk about. Was he close with two men named Bud Hawkins and Leland Warner?”

Given her condition, I wasn't expecting to get much information, but she surprised me. “You mean Cousin Leland and that fellow who worked on their orchard?”

“Warner's your cousin?”

She nodded, but looked uncertain, so I said, “Are you sure? How exactly are you related?”

She fumbled for a moment, then got angry. “I can prove we're family.” She pointed to a glass display case at the end of the room. “He gave me all those Hummel figurines. They belonged to his wife, and when she died, he gave them all to me.”

The case was empty, but Mida didn't seem to realize it. I decided to change the subject. “What about Warner's friend Bud? The one who worked at Warner's orchard?”

Her anger faded. “I think he only did that when he was young. When Bud became a man, he left to go somewhere. I can't remember where, but it seemed important.”

Not knowing appeared to trouble her, so I said, “The war?”

Relief spread across her face. “Yes. The war.”

I doubted she knew which war, but then she surprised me.

“I didn't have business with Bud until after he came back from Korea.” She nodded again. “You see, Leland knew our farm got into trouble after my parents died. He thought we could use the extra money Bud was willing to pay.”

“What was Bud paying for?”

She giggled. “To care for his little boy, of course.”

I shook my head. “Bud doesn't have a son.”

“I didn't say he did.”

“Then which little boy do you mean?”

“His brother, of course. William.”

I pulled back. My spine was as straight as it was ever likely to get. She was talking about my father. “How old was Bud's little brother when you took care of him?”

“Not very old, but he was walking and talking.” She frowned. “Although he was so quiet all the time. I'd never had a child before so I didn't know that wasn't normal.”

It was actually a relief to learn my father had always been that
way. A part of me had wondered if the stress of family life had caused him to withdraw from us. That's a nice way of saying I worried he didn't like me.

My curiosity surged. What else could Mida tell me about my father? I'd hardly known him in any meaningful way. Those who had, such as my mother and Bud, rarely talked about him.

But before I could speak, Mida leaned forward and continued her previous topic. “The only time he wasn't quiet was at night when he would cry himself to sleep asking for his mother.”

“Ooooo-kayyyyyy.” I took a deep breath. The thought of my orphan father crying himself to sleep broke my heart. My curiosity was replaced by anger toward Bud for leaving him. “I thought Bud raised his little brother. When did William live with you?”

“I'm not sure, exactly.” She looked around the room as though a clue might be hidden somewhere. “Ten years ago?”

The look on my face must have told her this was the wrong answer. “Twenty?” she asked.

“How old were you and Carter at the time?”

She looked around again, but this time her search appeared more frantic. “How old do you think I am now?”

It's almost always a bad idea to answer this question, but I sensed that it would be more than vanity upsetting Mida if I told her the truth.

“I'm terrible at guessing people's ages.” I barely paused before changing the subject. “If Bud's little brother was orphaned, why didn't Bud take care of the boy himself?”

“He was back from Korea and having trouble adjusting. A lot of the young men did.” She sounded sympathetic. “He said that going away to fight wildfires would be like being in the army again. I think it gave him structure.”

I remembered Warner's words from earlier in the day. He'd said that Bud's decision to go to Alaska was selfish thrill-seeking. The sanctimonious jerk had failed to mention that Bud had
post-traumatic stress disorder from the war. The anger I'd just felt toward Bud easily swung to Warner.

Mida continued, “And Bud eventually did right. Came back at the end of the fire season and never left again. Raised that boy all by himself. I always gave him credit for that.”

“It sounds as though you liked Bud.” I wondered if it was more than “like.” Bud as a handsome young war hero would have turned a lot of female heads. “Was it hard when he told the police about Carter stealing?”

“What do you mean?” Her eyes darted around the room looking for an answer. “I don't understand.”

“Carter stole jewelry from Leland Warner. Bud was the witness.”

She got up and hobbled toward the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I don't drink coffee.” I followed her. “What happened to your brother after he ran away from the police? Where did he go?”

She reached the kitchen. What she expected to be there smashed into the reality of the empty burnt room. She looked all around as if she had no idea where she was.

“Mida,” I repeated. “Has your brother been in contact with you?”

She spun around. “How did you get in my house?”

“You invited me.”

Her entire body began shaking. “Why would I do that? You're a liar. You're not my aide. You don't work for me.”

“Someone hurt Bud today. When did you last see Carter? Has he been here to the farm?”

“No, no.” Tears formed and fell down her mottled cheek. “I don't ever think about Carter. He was a good brother.”

“I'm sorry. I know this is painful, but do you know where he is?”

Mida's hands went to her chest looking for the emergency panic button. When she realized the necklace wasn't there, she began
screaming. Not weak, little-old-lady requests for assistance. Mida screamed as though Satan were in the room with her.

I turned and ran for the bathroom. I got to the hallway, remembered my gear bag, and had to go back. I got to it just as Mida reached the front door.

“Help, help!” she screamed, and pulled frantically on the knob.

Outside I heard Sally yelling, “Mom? Mom, what is it?”

I reached the bathroom and leapt on top of the vanity. I had to pause to suppress a laugh at the insanity of my situation. How many times in your life do you stand on a bathroom sink? My mind flashed on Bud as I went feetfirst out the window. Somehow the old codger always managed to land on his feet in situations like this. For once I did too.

I sprinted back to the news van. Fortunately no one followed me.

“What happened?” Leanore said as I climbed into the van.

I tried to catch my breath. “Nothing.”

“Then why were you running?”

I set my gear bag in the back and buckled my seat belt. “I saw Mida King. She's thin and frail. Mentally, she's even worse. Some kind of dementia.”

“Oh, dear.”

I started the van and pulled out onto the road. “Thing is, they're locking her inside. She's basically a prisoner in that mobile home.”

“If she has Alzheimer's, they may do it to keep her from wandering. Were there signs of elder abuse? We could call the police.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a pair of headlights some distance back. We were still an hour from sunset, but the car's unique LED lights popped in the gray twilight. “It wasn't like I saw bruises or anything, but the setup is unhealthy. It's just a matter of time before something bad happens.”

“We can contact the county's elder-care ombudsman,” Leanore said. “A social worker should check on her.”