Derailed (5 page)

“Harry, you can't sign that paper unless we're willin' for him to come here. And we already agreed this place is too small. It wouldn't be the truth—”

“But Estelle, it's all a farce. The county just wants him out of the state, out of their hair. They can't legally banish him, so they offer him this. It's a formality. We'd be doing exactly what they want just by signing it.”

She looked genuinely puzzled. “What're you saying? I thought we talked about this and agreed we couldn't invite him to live with us?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

I checked the form again. “You know, it don't say how long he has to ‘live' here.” I wiggled my fingers in the air like quote marks. “When he called, he said all he needed was a place to crash for a few days.”

Estelle squinted at me out of the corner of her eyes. “You're gettin' soft in your old age, Harry.”

“No, I ain't. I'm clear this can't be permanent—or even long term. But since the form doesn't specify the duration, we're not agreeing to any particular length of stay. We
could
sign it and let him use the couch a few nights.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “
Uh-huh
. And I'm sure you're gonna be the one to put him out too, when he hasn't found a place in a few days?” But I could tell she was softening.

“Of course.” I winked. “I'm the man around here, aren't I?”

“Oh yeah. You da man, Harry! You da man!” She laughed with warm humor and handed me a pen. “I'm just here to make sure you don't become no mouse!”

A week after doing our walk-through of the building, we paid our earnest money and signed all the initial papers to buy 7318
Beecham with an unbelievably quick closing date of March 15, less than three weeks away. The bank seemed anxious to get rid of the place, and I felt uncomfortable signing documents acknowledging we were buying the property “as is” with no warranty concerning the soundness of any aspect of the building. When I asked about it, the banker shrugged. “That's why we're willing to make such a quick sale at below market value. If we wait much longer, the city could condemn the property, then there'd be a lot of expense and a mountain of red tape to reverse. This way, you get the building, and once you pull the permits for the rehab, they won't condemn it on you.”

Our attorney agreed, but it still felt pretty scary.

Once we'd signed, the bank wasted no time arranging for the son of the previous owner to clear out the first floor. I dropped by on Saturday just as a big U-Haul truck rolled up. The driver was a tall, lanky white guy, probably in his early fifties, with just a little white in his mustache and around the temples of his slate-colored hair. He looked about as awkward as I felt, but he came forward with his hand out and offered a firm, rough grip of someone who worked in the trades. “Hey. Don Krakowski.”

“Harry Bentley. You here to clean the place out?”

“Yeah. Sorry about taking so long to get my mother's stuff out, but it's been crazy ever since the storm.”

“No problem. So this was your mom's place? I'm sorry she wasn't able to stay.” At least I knew I
should
feel sorry for anyone who'd lost their home.

He gestured toward the second floor. “I was hoping to get some good tenants in there to stop the repossession, but it just took me too long to finish the work. Then she fell, and that was it.”

“Fell?”

“Yeah. You didn't hear about that?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” his eyebrows went up, “we nearly lost her. Happened the night of the storm. Furnace went out, and she tumbled down the basement steps trying to check on it. I knew she shouldn't be living here alone.” He waved at the street. “Whole neighborhood's
changed, and I don't think she knew anybody anymore. She lay at the bottom of those stairs all night, nearly froze to death before the kid next door heard her calling for help the next day.”

“
Phew
. Sorry to hear that.” My excitement over getting the building choked in my throat like a wad of cotton. A stranger's financial problems hadn't touched me very deeply, but the fact that an old woman—this man's mother—nearly died in the process . . . “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry,” I mumbled. “She okay now?”

The man shrugged. “Comin' along, but you know how a broken hip can be for an older person. I finally got her into a nursing home out in Elgin, not too far from me. But I don't have any idea what I'm gonna do with all her stuff. Probably have to put it in one of those storage places. Sure don't want it in my garage.”

The two guys who'd come with Krakowski looked Hispanic, one young and strongly built. The older fellow was pulling hard on a cigarette, his weathered face as lined as a crumpled-up lunch bag.

“Uh, could you guys use a hand?” It seemed like the least I could do. “I don't have anything else scheduled for the morning.”

“Sure. I only got this one day off work, and it'll probably be long after dark before I get home.”

“Whaddaya do?”

“Ah, we install home security systems.” He pulled out his wallet and handed me a card. “It's kind of far, but my boss has done jobs here before, 'cause we can beat most any local price.”

“Thanks. I'll keep it in mind.” I stuffed the card in my shirt pocket, knowing it would probably end up on my dresser until Estelle nagged me to clean it off.

The movers didn't clear out any of the trash—magazines, boxes, old canning jars . . . the list went on and on. Couldn't really blame them, and I told Krakowski to forget it so long as he informed the bank he had no further claim on anything in the building.

When I told Estelle about the old lady falling down the basement stairs, she sat down in a chair and held her head in her hands, shaking it back and forth. I waited until she looked up at me with
tears in her eyes. “Harry, how can we move in there after what happened? It's like . . . it's like her ghost would still be there.”

“You believe in ghosts, Estelle?”

“No, but—”

“Well, then, she didn't die. So there's no ghost.” And it was too late to back out now.

“Harry! That's not it. It just doesn't seem right to benefit from her accident.”

“Yeah. I know. I felt that way too. But her son said he'd known for some time she shouldn't be living alone. Now he's finally got her in a good nursing home out in Elgin.”

“
Hmm
.” Estelle sat for several moments. “I've done a lot of in-home elder care, but sometimes a person needs more help than that. And a broken hip is probably one of those times, at least until she recovers her mobility . . . if she does.” She looked up at me. “Sit down, Harry. Let's pray for her. Did you get her name?”

“Yeah, it's Mattie . . . I think. Mattie Krakowski. And her son's name is Don. He even gave me his business card.” I dug it out of my shirt pocket. “Here.”

Estelle looked at it a moment and then pinned it to her kitchen bulletin board. “I'm gonna keep this. I wanna know how she gets on.”

After Don Krakowski had cleared out all his mother's stuff, the bank was remarkably flexible in letting me into the building with contractors to plan and collect bids on the rehab. The only restriction was that no work could begin and no equipment or materials could be left on the premises until after the closing date.

Three contractors bid on the first-floor work, and I lined up a furnace company Denny Baxter from my men's group had recommended. We'd be converting to separate furnaces for each unit.

We closed Monday afternoon, March 15, without a hitch. As we left the title company, the overcast sky in the west began to break up, letting bright shafts of sunlight knife down to the earth.

Estelle grabbed my arm. “God is good, all the time!”

“And all the time, God is good!” I grinned at her. “Hey, let's go out for an early dinner to celebrate.”

“What about DaShawn?”

“He's got basketball. Won't be home till later.”

“
Hmm
, guess there's plenty of leftovers—”

“Oh, come on. He'll be fine. How about El Barco Mariscos?”

“El what?”

“You remember, that Mexican place you liked down on Ashland.”

“Oh, yeah, Mexican seafood. That was good.”

The restaurant seemed crowded for a Monday evening, but we were seated within ten minutes. Our salads had just been served when my iPhone sounded.

Estelle gave me a warning squint. “Don't answer.”

I looked at the screen and nearly complied because I didn't recognize the number, but it was local, so I gave Estelle an apologetic smile and slid my finger across the slide to answer. “Yeah, Bentley.”

“Mr. Harry Bentley? Is your mother Wanda Bentley?”

“Yes. Who's this?”

“Mr. Bentley, I'm sorry to have to have to call you, but your mother's here in the ER at Saint Francis Hospital, and it looks like she's had a stroke. She's—”

“What? My mother?”

“Yes. The paramedics brought her in about twenty minutes ago. We've got her stabilized for the time being, but . . . you should get here as soon as you can.”

I turned off my phone and slid it into my
pocket. “We gotta go!” I raised my hand to catch the attention of our waitress.

“Harry! What's goin' on? We just got here. Who called?”

I felt as if I was floating in a fog. “Saint Francis,” I mumbled. “Saint Francis Hospital. They took Mom there. Said she's had a stroke.”

Estelle clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. “Oh no. No, no, no. O Lord, have mercy.” She pushed her salad back. “Yes, let's go.”

We stood up, and I pulled out my wallet, counting out three twenties. That ought to cover it with a hefty tip. Our actions had finally caught the attention of the waitress, and she came scurrying over, a big grin on her face.

“Is everything okay? Your salad? Can I get you . . . What? You aren't leaving, are you?”

“Yes, we have to go.”

“Well, if there's anything we can—”

“Family emergency.” I dropped the bills on the table. “There, we're good.”

I helped Estelle get her arm in the sleeve of her coat, and I'm afraid we bumped a couple of tables as we bolted for the door, but I couldn't help it if other patrons misunderstood our haste for dislike of the food.

At the hospital we headed straight to the ER, and the nurse at the desk confirmed a Wanda Bentley was still being evaluated. They let us in, but she wasn't in Bay Six where she was supposed to be.

“You looking for Ms. Bentley?”

I turned to face what looked like an exceptionally young intern. “Yeah, my mother, Wanda Bentley.”

“They took her for an MRI. She should be back in a little while. Won't be too long.”

“But how is she?”

“That's what we're trying to assess.” He gave us a who-knows shrug. “They got her in here right away, apparently as soon as she began exhibiting symptoms. So that's good, and so far there's only slight impairment. But we won't know until we have more information.” The intern turned and looked across the ward. “Excuse me. I have to attend to another patient. Why don't you folks pull up a couple of chairs and wait.”

I touched his shoulder as he turned to leave. “Can't we go be with her while she has the scan?”

He shook his head. “No one can be in
that
room, but as soon as she's done, they'll bring her straight back here. Just have a seat.”

Estelle shook her head as we sat down. “That machine'll scare her to death.”

“Why? What's it do? Isn't it just a big X-ray?”

“
Hmph
! Don't know if it even uses rays! But they slide you in this narrow tube, and then the thing whirs and bangs like someone hitting the outside with a sledge hammer.”