Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (16 page)

Once she’d parked, Marcellus joined her brother and nephew in the lobby where they sat waiting to speak to the nursing home’s director. The tables were set for lunch; cooking smells filled the room. Mozart played through unseen speakers.
 

``Not as bad as I expected,’’ Brant said, surveying the room. His back was stiff from sitting in the passenger’s seat. The pancakes and bacon he’d had for breakfast sat heavy and solid in his stomach, making him feel sluggish and slow. No wonder he’d snapped at Marcellus.
 

 
Origami cranes lined the borders of a bulletin board.

 
``Some of the residents make the decorations themselves.’’

 
Brant turned in the direction of the voice. A woman approached from the kitchen where she’d been overseeing lunch preparations. Brant and Marcellus rose to shake the outstretched hand she offered as greeting.

 
``Dad do any of this?’’ he asked, indicating the paper cranes affixed to the cork board. The woman smiled nervously.

 
``Errr, no. Your father has other interests I’m afraid.’’

 
``How has he been?’’ Brant asked the director. The woman had taken a seat at their table.
 

 
``And who is this handsome one?’’ she said, ignoring the question for the moment. Ben gazed at the woman, a look of mild irritation on his face.
 

 
``Ben. And I’m not handsome.’’
 

 
``A feisty one, eh. Just like your grandfather.’’

 
``He’s being difficult?’’

 
The director turned from Ben so she could better direct her comments to Brant and his sister. A few of the residents had begun sauntering into the dining room. A white-haired man, crooked and stooped, gripped a walker as he stood at the threshold of the entryway.
 

 
``Define difficult.’’ The woman laughed nervously.
 

Jerry Brant’s room was on the second floor at the rear of the building with a view of the parking lot and the expressway. Brant climbed the stairs with Ben in tow. At the top of the landing, they turned right and headed toward the nurse’s station. A group of men and women dressed in white and pale blue nodded and smiled when they saw Ben.

 
``Is he in?’’ Brant asked one of the nurses, nodding in the direction of his father’s room.
 

 
``In his usual place,’’ the nurse said in response.

 
``Okay if we go in?’’

 
``Sure.

 
Brant took Ben’s hand in his. ``Let’s go see your grandpa.’’

 
The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Jazz played from a receiver sitting atop a lacquered credenza. Jerry Brant, wrapped in a shawl, sat in an oversized chair by the window with a book in his lap and a mug of coffee in his left hand. They paused in the doorway long enough for the old man to sense their presence.
 

 
Brant felt momentarily guilty and ashamed for how he and Marcellus had carted their father off to this place without a second thought. They’d rationalized it by telling themselves it was for Jerry’s own good, that he’d become a danger to himself and the other residents in the condo complex where he’d been living when they’d found out about the cancer. But that wasn’t really the case. Brant knew it and so did Marcellus. Jerry suspected it, too.

 
``Well? Are you just going to stand there?’’

 
``Can we get some light in here?’’

 
``That better?’’ Jerry Brant reached across his lap for the lamp switch. The book that had been in his lap spilled to the floor, losing the old man’s page.

 
``Ah, fu…. Now see what you’ve done.’’

 
Brant crouched to retrieve the book before his father could shake free of the shawl. Marcellus remained standing by the door.

 
``Sorry about that.’’

 
His father shook his head and muttered to himself, his voice low and muddled. Ben, sensing his grandpa was angry at his father, smiled nervously.
 

 
``You’ve come. You’ve done your duty. Now why don’t you fuck off and take your sister with you.’’

 
``Jesus, dad. Can you watch the language. Ben’s here with me.’’

 
``Ben? Here? Where is the little bugger?’’

 
Ben peeked out from behind his father’s legs. The old man’s face brightened when he caught sight of the young boy. The room seemed to lighten as the mood began to turn.

 
``Hi grandpa. Daddy says we’re going to play cards.’’

 
``Is that so?’’ Jerry Brant looked up at his son. ``Well, maybe we’ll do just that.’’

 
``Ben’s been talking about visiting you all week. Isn’t that so son?’’ Brant placed his father’s book on the bedside table. Ben smiled at his father’s comment.

 
Jerry sighed as he settled back into his chair. In the light, Brant could see his father had aged since their last visit. The full head of hair, so black and thick in youth, had turned white and was now thinning to almost nothing at the crown. Bushy eyebrows, a crooked nose and sagging jowls punctuated the old man’s face.
 

 
``There’s a pack of cards over there,’’ Jerry said, pointing in the direction of the credenza. ``I think there may even be a full deck, unlike your old grandpa, eh Ben?’’

 
Ben, unsure how to respond, looked to his father for guidance. Brant’s smile was wan and full of sympathy.
 

 
``So Marcellus, how are you? Left that husband of yours yet?’’

 
Marcellus stepped from the shadows as she edged into the room.
 

 
``Hello, dad. Nice to see you.’’

 
Jerry Brant harrumphed a response.

 
``Over here, Grandpa?’’ Ben had reached the credenza and was sifting through the drawers.
 

 
``Lower drawer, I think. The left…or some other damned place. Who knows these days, eh?’’ Jerry took a gulp of coffee and placed the mug shakily back onto the nightstand. ``You were saying, Jonas?’’

 
``Nothing, Dad. I wasn’t saying anything.’’

 
Jerry had shuffled the deck and was dealing between himself and Ben. ``You want to join us or are you going to mope around all day? And if you are, can you do it sitting down. You make me nervous standing there. You too Marcellus.’’

 
Brant and his sister pulled armchairs up beside their father. The smell of talcum powder and day-old cigarette smoke filled the air.

 
``This is a rare treat. Both my children in the same room.’’

 
Jerry’s voice seemed laced with bitterness. In truth, Brant couldn’t blame him. Aging was a messy process. It was nothing but loss. Some took it gracefully. Their father had never been one to accept the inevitable.
 

 
``So how are the meds? Doctors telling you much or want me to see what I can do?’’ Marcellus asked.

 
``Now why would I want that? I can take care of my own health, thank you. Your mother, she was the same. Always trying to take care of things for other people.’’

 
Brant held the cards he’d been dealt in front of him in surrender. Marcellus had crossed her legs. Her face had formed a tight frown as she watched the interplay of father and son.

 
``We’re just asking,’’ she said finally. ``You don’t have to be such a bitter old man.’’

 
``Oh, is that so? And what would you know about being an old man? Huh? Right, no answers to that one. Just like the rest of them.’’ Jerry waved his hand of cards in the direction of the nurse’s station. After searching his hand, he played a card and turned to his grandson. ``What is it that we’re playing exactly, Ben?’’

 
``Crazy Eights.’’
 

 
Ben selected his own card and beamed as he placed it onto the night table that had been moved between them. ``Now you go, Daddy.’’

 
``Crazy Eights? Haven’t played this for dog’s years.’’

 
``Daddy’s a policeman.’’

 
``Oh, I know. He’s always trying to tell the right from the wrong. Always, even when he was a boy. Waste of time being a cop if you ask me.’’
 

 
Jerry played a card, leaving him with one. Play continued with Brant and his son each discarding one from their own hands. When Jerry’s turn came again, he sucked air in through his teeth as he contemplated his next move. Triumphantly, he set his remaining card face up on the pile in the center.
 

 
``I believe I’ve won.’’

 
Brant and Ben threw their cards to the table in response. Marcellus picked the cards up and began shuffling.
 

The game continued for some time. Brant and Marcellus grew tired and bored while Ben’s smile grew wider with each passing hand.

 
Brant began collecting the cards after a final hand before sneaking a looked at his watch.

 
``It’s getting late and we have to be getting home. It’s a long drive.’’

 
``You’ll come again soon?’’

 
Jerry’s face had softened. Outside, afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen as the day wore closer to an end. Marcellus had feigned the need for a bathroom break and had left some time ago, leaving Brant and Ben to watch over the old man.

 
``I’ve got a tough case going at the moment, Dad. I don’t know when we can come back.’’

 
Jerry pouted. He’d retrieved the shawl from the floor and now he pulled it over his lap.

 
``Typical,’’ Jerry said, almost spitting the words. ``You’ve got more time for those scumbags you work with than you do for the old man.’’

 
``What’s that supposed to mean?’’ Brant’s face flushed with anger as he weighed his words.

 
``Well, go on then. Get out of here,’’ Jerry Brant said, filling the silence. Jerry waved his hand in the direction of the door. ``Go on.’’

 
``We came to comfort you, Dad. Not to fight. But you seem to want to pick battles with the world.’’

 
Jerry Brant pulled the shawl tighter over his chest, which rose and fell in tune to his shallow breathing.

 
``You’re a real hero.’’

 
``Ben, go and find your aunt,’’ Brant said, sensing the boy’s discomfort. ``She’s just outside.’’

 
Brant took Ben’s hand and guided him to the door. A single nurse remained at the station. The nurse looked up from a stack of medical records when he saw Ben enter the hallway.

 
``Do you think you can take my son down to the lobby to my sister?’’ Brant asked the nurse. ``We’re almost done but I still need a few moments.’’

 
The nurse smiled. ``I’ll need to call one of the other nurses to man the station. Your son can sit here while we wait.’’

 
The nurse nodded in the direction of a small lobby at the end of the hall where Wheel of Fortune played on a television sitting atop an entertainment cabinet.

 
``Go ahead, Ben. This nice man will come and get you when another nurse comes. You’ll be fine.’’

 
Ben squeezed his father’s hand before reluctantly letting go.

 
``He’ll be fine,’’ the nurse said.

 
``Thank you.’’

 
Jerry Brant was scowling into the dark corners of his room when Brant returned. The volume on the stereo receiver had been turned up. Kenny G filled the room.

 
``Goddamned nurses think this crap keeps me calm,’’ Jerry said, pointing in the direction of the receiver and the illuminated dials on the face of its brushed-metal casing.

 
``Listen to me,’’ Brant began. ``Your days of bullying are over. You bullied mom and now you’re bullying us. Marcellus and I aren’t going to put up with it.’’

 
Jerry Brant sulked.
 

 
``You two are quite the pair,’’ the old man said after a moment. ``Days go by and nothing. Crestor over there. His son comes every Sunday. Can’t shut him up about the visits.’’

 
Jerry Brant nodded to a door and the adjoining room. To save on costs, Jerry shared a bathroom with his neighbor. Alan Crestor had been a physics teacher at a local community college before a stroke had left him partially paralyzed and unable to form words correctly.

 
``Don’t talk garbage. Mr. Crestor doesn’t speak, Dad.’’

 
``That’s the point,’’ Jerry Brant said. ``The old fool just sits in his chair, drools and mumbles. But I know what he’s saying. He’s mocking me.’’

 
Brant rolled his eyes and sighed. ``He’s not mocking you, Dad. Give the poor man a break. He has challenges you don’t.’’

 
``Is that so?’’ Jerry Brant had opened the book he’d been reading and began flipping the pages to where he’d marked his spot with a fold. His hands shook. ``And you know a lot about challenges, do you Mr. Perfect?’’

 
Brant clenched his fist. He was about to launch a verbal volley when his cellphone rang. He retrieved the handset and looked at the screen.

 
``I need to get this, Dad. It’s important.’’

 
``I’ll bet it is.’’

 
Jerry Brant licked the tip of his index finger and turned a page of his book.