Recessional: A Novel (6 page)

“Business that bad?”

“No! Not at all! We’re doing about what we expected.” Zorn could not accept this because in Chicago he had seen the red pin; however, he allowed Krenek to continue: “Remember that about half the apartments contain only one person, usually a widow. We also keep three rooms available for renting to family friends of our residents who come visiting. We could accept maybe four more entrants, but that’s about it.” Zorn wondered where the deficiencies were.

When they reached the end of the long, handsomely decorated ground-floor hall, Krenek suggested that they ride up to the seventh floor, and from that height at the far end of the building, he pointed out the feature that made the Palms distinctive among the many retirement homes in southwestern Florida: “If you look down there, you’ll see that here our land juts out into the river forming a rather fine peninsula. We’ve built right to the water’s edge on all sides, which means that on each floor we have three suites in what we call the Peninsula, water visible from all windows.” Eager to demonstrate the elegance of these apartments, he went to a hall phone and dialed the number of the middle suite of floor seven: “Chris, this is Krenek. Excuse me for intruding, but I have with me Dr. Zorn, our new man from Chicago. Yes. Just arrived, and I wanted to show him an apartment. Would like to start with our best. Could I bring him in? If Esther will allow it?”

When the answer was a hearty “Sure!” Krenek led the way to the middle door of the graceful circle at the end of the peninsula. The door opened, with the inhabitants greeting him warmly. Andy soon realized that Ken Krenek was a lot shrewder than one might have guessed, for he had arranged that the first residents of the Palms his new director met would be one of the most remarkably lively pairs in the center. Mr. Mallory, eighty-nine years old, was a Midwestern banker who had amassed a minor fortune through prudent financial dealings, but he was at the same time a bon vivant who loved to entertain and frequent public dance halls, where he and his petite wife of eighty-seven not only did most of the newest dance steps but also charmed the onlookers with their strenuous exhibitions of the old dances like the Charleston. They were, Andy would discover, boundless
sources of energy, and showed every sign that they would continue so into their nineties.

Andy, meeting them for the first time, thought: These are the sort of people I expected—well-bred, well cared for through the years, probably never had to worry much about money. But Krenek quickly killed that misinterpretation: Chris Mallory was a night-school graduate from the University of Wisconsin who as a young man had progressed in various businesses until he became president of a major bank with eight or nine branches. He now drove a stock two-door Pontiac, but his wife had insisted strenuously that they could afford a four-door so that when they invited couples to drive with them the other wife need not mess her hair climbing into the rear seat. He had told her somewhat mendaciously that he believed they could afford it, and she had bought a Cadillac, but he did not intend trading in his two-door; he liked its compact convenience.

He had met his wife, Esther, whom everyone at the Palms called Es, when she was working as a teller at his bank’s Sheboygan branch, and after watching her masterly way with customers, he found numerous excuses for inspecting the Sheboygan facility. At the end of one protracted visit she had said: “Mr. Mallory, if you intend proposing to me ultimately, why not do it now and get our family started?” He replied as if she had asked for a loan: “I think that might be eminently sensible,” but he did not formally propose until some time later, for he believed that bankers should never take precipitate action on any proposal. Many years later, when he watched the debacle into which Savings and Loan managers had plunged the country because they acted incautiously, he growled: “They should be horsewhipped.”

Both the Mallorys acknowledged that his subsequent success in putting together a banking empire was attributable in large part to Mrs. Mallory’s instinct for bold business moves. She loved to gamble on new ventures with whatever excess funds they had at the close of any business year. Her acumen regarding new developments in national finance plus his country-boy prudence in assessing specific situations had made them a formidable team whose fortunes grew not spectacularly but with absolute certainty. Among the numerous well-to-do couples at the Palms, they were unquestionably the wealthiest, the best dancers, the freest with their money and the best hosts.

They had been happily married for sixty-one years, and when they reached their late seventies Mrs. Mallory, tired of maintaining a large house in a harsh climate, said: “Let’s get out of these hellish Wisconsin winters and have some enjoyment in life.” Es Mallory had launched a search committee of her business friends, who recommended the west coast of Florida. When Es and her husband saw the architectural layout of the Palms, they grabbed the largest apartment on the topmost floor of the peninsula wing.

From their balcony, to which they led their visitors when the tour of the rooms was completed, Zorn could see to his right the smaller waterway called the river, and to his left the area where it widened and became a spacious body called the channel, which was protected on the west by a chain of small islands on which handsome, low houses had been built. “When a storm blows in from the Gulf of Mexico,” Mr. Mallory said, “those islands take a real beating. Water three feet up in the houses. But with us, hiding behind the islands, it’s never too bad.”

Mrs. Mallory, who loved the natural features of their site, pointed across the river to a tangle of trees growing in the water, scraggly bushes, vines and muddy flats: “That’s our cypress swamp, a marvelous place for birds. Paths run through it, but so do mosquitoes and snakes. Stay clear.”

As she spoke, Zorn moved around to the eastern edge of their balcony: “What’s the name of those extraordinary trees I saw coming in? Can they be palms, as the sign says?”

“They’re palms,” Mr. Mallory said, “that’s for sure, but they are queer. What you must do is ask Laura Oliphant, the do-good lady on the first floor. She knows everything about nature and loves to share her knowledge.”

So on the walk through the corridors to the Assisted Living and Extended Care wing of the building, Krenek stopped at another telephone and asked Ms. Oliphant if he could bring the new director in to ask about the curious palms that lined the two walks, and she agreed. Zorn wondered where the second walk might be.

Before they reached her door, Krenek whispered: “She occupies our most inexpensive apartment, doesn’t have much money, but she’s one of the most valuable residents we have. People call her “our do-gooder,” because she has a fantastic moral conscience. Her role in life has always been to make things better than they are.” He chuckled: “But she’s no dreamer. She doesn’t want to do all the work herself.
She intends from the moment she meets you for
you
to do the heavy work. I sometimes tremble when I see her approaching, because it means she has a new job for me.” Nevertheless, Andy noted, Ken knocked on her door with real enthusiasm as if assured that his new director was about to meet a woman of extraordinary qualities. As they waited for the door to open, Zorn said: “Did I hear you pronounce it ‘Miz Oliphant’?” and Krenek explained: “She insists. She’s been a leader in the battle for women’s rights.”

Ms. Oliphant welcomed them into what was clearly one of the least expensive apartments at the rear of the building, but it provided ample space, made almost ideal by opening onto a small plaza that fronted on the channel, where privately owned boats of all dimensions drifted by so close to shore that she sometimes felt she could reach out and touch them. “It was made for Laura,” Krenek said as the men sat facing her. “Not long ago she had both hips replaced and she wanted something on the ground floor so she could walk directly onto the plaza and exercise her mechanical joints. You’ve done wonderfully, haven’t you?”

“I’m not penned up, that’s for sure.”

“What was it?” Zorn asked. “Arthritis?”

“Yes. By the way, have you heard about the Georgia cracker who said: ‘My friend Oliver was told that his wife was in bed with Arthuritis, and he swore that if he could find where that guy Arthur lived, he was gonna shoot him’? Last year I wanted to shoot him, too, but this hip operation is sensational. And I was seventy-five when I had it.”

She asked to be excused for a moment while she prepared a welcoming drink for her guests, and when she got up Andy had an opportunity to look at her more closely. She was of medium height, spare in appearance and very determined in her gestures, as if she did not wish to waste a minute of her time. She had fine-looking thick gray hair, which she wore in a trim schoolboy bob. Returning from the corner of the room that served as a kind of kitchenette, she brought with her a silver tray on which stood three elegant glasses containing a pale reddish wine.

“It’s called
blush
,” she said, as if that were a name equal to port or sherry. Krenek explained: “It’s good old vin rosé from a California winery, but our women residents like to call it blush, as if that dignifies it in some way.” She shot back with “You keep your mouth shut, Kenneth, or no blush for you.”

Krenek took a substantial gulp of the wine, declared it to be superb and said: “Dr. Zorn asked the Mallorys the name of our famous palm trees, but none of us could remember because we’re not really tree people.”

Ms. Oliphant took a guide from her shelf, thumbed through it till she reached the palm section and read: “ ‘Florida can boast of eleven native species of palm trees, including all the most famous ones except the spectacular traveler’s palm of Africa, with its fanlike branches in a flat display.’ ” Looking at Zorn, she said, “So our remarkable specimens could be almost anything in the book, but actually they’re unique,” and she showed him an exact drawing of the trees he had stopped to inspect: “I’m sure you’ve spotted the salient features.” He noticed that she spoke eagerly, with a professional interest in enlightening others: “It’s the Washingtonia, that’s its proper name, but no one can tell me how it got the name. It’s a wonderful tree, but it’s not native to Florida!”

Ms. Oliphant rose, walked vigorously to her door and led the way to her private plaza without using a cane, and he asked admiringly: “How long ago was your operation?” When she replied: “Three months,” he said: “Miraculous. I know strong men who’re afraid to walk without a cane after six months,” and she said: “I couldn’t wait.” She was the first person he had met at the Palms who could properly be called a patient, and to see her striding about with such spirit was a reassuring sign.

When they were out on the plaza she pointed south and there, along the channel with its little boats, was the second row of the amazing palms like a file of drum majors on stilts. But much as he admired them he could not understand why the trees had that curious ruff of black. “Simple, really,” she said. “You can see that the fronds on top are green, the ones in the snarl below are dusty brown. A year ago the black ones in the middle were alive and green. Like all else in nature, at their appointed time they died and turned black. But they still retained strength enough to reach straight out in a whorl. As sap leaves them and they really die, they’ll turn brown, lose their strength and form part of the tangle below.”

Zorn was impressed that she was so knowledgeable: “You amaze me with your ability to make things clear. I’ve had college professors—”

“I was headmistress of an elite private girls’ school. With a group
like that you’d better be able to explain things.” She paused, then laughed: “Young girls can be so much more inquisitive than young boys their same age.”

“I’m fascinated by that inverted teardrop effect,” Zorn said. “Does the tangle remain forever?”

“In due course the whole tree dies. Its roots cannot sustain it. Some night in a storm it topples and the solemn grandeur is gone. Even the dead fronds die again.” She did not deliver this judgment funereally, for as she spoke she turned to point to the edge of what appeared to be a low jungle and there a Washingtonia not three feet high was starting its climb toward the stars. “Eighty more feet to go,” she said brightly, “but it’ll make it long years from now.” She paused, studied the ambitious little tree and said: “Of course, none of us in residence now will be around to applaud its victory.”

Dr. Zorn was eager to see the hospital, but when he used that word, Krenek corrected him: “We never say that. Remember, with most Taggart operations it’s a twofold deal, Assisted Living and Extended Care. Both part of the same structure.” And he led the way out of the main wing and into the oval so that Zorn could approach the other wing as if he were a visitor coming to inspect facilities. There embedded in the wall beside the entrance was the sign in small letters
ASSISTED LIVING
, and inside was a handsome reception area designed to make visitors feel they had entered a place truly dedicated to their welfare. The receptionist wore a nurse’s uniform. Medical journals were stacked on tables, and carefully placed signs indicated doctors’ offices, rehabilitation clinics and the dietitian’s room. Certain business offices for the entire establishment were also here, dealing with health services and limousine reservations for residents who wanted to shop in the nearby mall or visit medical men outside the Palms.

As Ken invited Zorn to join him for coffee in one of the offices, he explained a major peculiarity of the place: “Under Florida law, which the medical profession has enacted to protect itself, no one on our premises, not even you as medical adviser, is allowed to prescribe or issue so much as an aspirin, or tape a broken finger, and certainly not treat a serious illness.”

“What must I do?”

“You must advise the patient to get in touch with his or her own
doctor. A score of them practice nearby. That doctor must do the diagnosis and establish the treatment. That doctor alone can recommend that a patient be moved into our Assisted Living facilities or go into one of the local hospitals.”