Recessional: A Novel (10 page)

“They took my paper. I want my paper. Only thing I enjoy is my paper and they took it.”

“What’s he talking about?” Nora asked and Miss Grimes said: “Cleaning people must have seen it on the floor and thrown it in the trash.”

“No wonder you’re distressed,” Nora said to the angry little fellow. “I’d be, too, if they took my paper before I’d read it.” Reaching for his phone, she dialed her office and said: “Jane, rush my copy of today’s paper up to Room 326,” and this was done, but when it arrived, Mr. Richards took one look and threw it to the floor: “It’s the Tampa paper and I want my paper, the St. Petersburg one. It has more foreign news.” Again Nora phoned her office: “Have Sam rush over to the mall and get Mr. Richards a copy of today’s St. Petersburg paper. Use money from our petty cash,” and while they waited
for this to be done, Nora sat on the bed with Mr. Richards and told him: “You raise hell like this again, Buster, I’m gonna whomp you,” and he looked up at her gigantic size and said: “I believe you would, too. But I do want my paper.”

“Weren’t you listening? I just sent Sam to get you a copy,” and he said: “I’m not going to pay twice for what was mine to begin with.”

“Mr. Richards, my dear friend, I’ve already paid for it. You were right to make a fuss, but now settle down or I’m really gonna whomp you.” He looked at her and smiled, and when Sam delivered the paper with the foreign news Richards took it, thanked him and explained to Nora and Zorn: “In my real life I worked overseas a lot, Arabia, Pakistan, Congo, Mexico, wherever there was oil in the ground, there I was. Thank you.”

But even Nora’s relaxed style tensed when they approached Room 312, where she stopped outside the door: “This is our job at its worst, Andy. The woman in here, Mrs. Carlson, is practically dead, but there is no way, legally, that anyone can take any positive step, like cutting off support systems or stopping medication, to enable her to die of natural causes.”

“Does she know she’s in the last stages?”

“Know! Doctor, she’s been comatose for more than a year. In all that time she’s never known who she was, or where she was, or the name of anyone who comes to visit her. She’s what they call a ‘living vegetable,’ and I want you to see how she’s kept alive.” Nora ushered him into the room where, in a bed lined with many wires and transparent tubes running down from a complicated gantry, Mrs. Carlson, pallid and passive and tormented by bedsores, spent her unheeding existence. It was both a miracle and a travesty of modern medicine. She was kept alive without her brain or nervous system sending signals for the various body functions; they were discharged according to the dictates of medicines or pumps or the slow drainage of chemicals into and out of her body.

Nora commented, in a voice carefully devoid of inflection: “We are absolutely committed by law and the customs of humanity and the Hippocratic oath to keep her alive as long as we can, and medicine comes up with one miracle solution after another to do this. Her physician, you’ll meet him, Dr. Ambedkar, an Indian Indian, is first-class. He’s engineered the devices that keep her going and I suspect he thinks of her as his masterpiece.”

“And what has it cost so far?”

“Counting everything, outside costs and ours and the doctors’, she has to have several of them, around two hundred thousand dollars.”

“You certainly don’t approve of a scene like this, do you?”

“I’m a licensed agent of the government with a sworn obligation to keep her and all the others alive, and let me give you some stern advice, Doctor, don’t you by word or deed or even a hint go against the legal rules or you could destroy both yourself and the Palms. Our responsibility is to keep them alive.”

“But isn’t there something called a living will? Gives the doctors the legal right to terminate cases like this?”

“There is. But she didn’t sign one. And even when they do we often find that because of some slip or other the courts find them not legal at all. We’re on very tricky ground here, Dr. Zorn, and don’t allow yourself to be thrown by it. Anyway, you have nothing to say about the problems on this floor. Only Dr. Farquhar can give orders, and he’s extremely careful about preserving life. So do not try to interfere. Only disaster can come from that.”

These two compassionate officials who understood the moral aspects of what they were discussing had conducted their analysis while standing on opposite sides of Mrs. Carlson’s gantried bed, but she did not hear their arguments, even though they concerned her welfare, nor had she heard anything for the past fifteen months, a hostage to the miracle of modern medicine.

During his third week on the job, Dr. Zorn had two conspicuous successes, which gave him the confidence to tell Miss Foxworth: “We may be able to turn the corner,” only to have her warn: “Each of your predecessors told me the same thing at some early stage in his regime, only to see the brief success crumble into dust.”

“But these two events prove that I can sell rooms.” He had, by accident, come upon Ken Krenek when the latter was ineffectually trying to convince two elderly couples from Indiana that the Palms was the place for them. Zorn, in passing, saw the glazed looks in the eyes of the Hoosiers and realized that they were soon going to terminate their inspection. Quietly he inserted himself into the quintet, told the visitors how much he had enjoyed the beauty of Indiana
when he worked in nearby Chicago, and subtly brought in the names of Ambassador St. Près and Senator Raborn: “On the floor of the United States Senate, Raborn was a lion of rectitude and the sponsor of many fine laws. He and his wife occupy the suite next to the one you’re considering, Mr. Evans. If he chanced to come by he’d tell you what a fine place the Palms is.”

“Do those two men actually live here? Permanently?”

“Indeed they do,” Andy said, his brick-red hair glistening in the sunlight and his round face a wreath of smiles. “Goodness me! Here comes the ambassador now,” and he made a great to-do about hailing the reserved diplomat: “Sir, these good people from Indiana are inspecting our establishment, and I wonder if you’d care to tell them how congenial you find the place.”

The Hoosiers proved to be such interesting citizens that after a few moments St. Près actually drew up a chair. When Senator Raborn happened to come looking for the diplomat, he too joined the conversation, and forty minutes later Andy Zorn had sold his first two apartments. In finalizing the deal the four visitors told Zorn: “You were so helpful. You had so many answers to the very questions that troubled us. Lucky for us you came along, because if you’re the manager—”

Andy accepted the compliments, for they verified what he had promised Mr. Taggart: “The skills that enabled me to calm anxious mothers and frightened children will work equally well with older people.” As for Andy’s second success, it began as a disaster on the day after the Hoosier sale when Krenek and Miss Foxworth rushed into his office with terrible news: “The Mallorys are moving out again. There goes our biggest suite.”

It was true. The millionaire couple had hired professional movers to report at their apartment at eight in the morning and transport everything to a new condominium on an island in the St. Petersburg district. By the time Andy reached the apartment he found it half empty and the dancing Mallorys unconcerned as they supervised the removal of the remainder.

“My dear friends!” Zorn pleaded, “how can you possibly do this? Haven’t you enjoyed yourselves here?”

“We find we’re really not ready for a retirement center,” Mr. Mallory said. “We need a house of our own—city amenities—beauty like what the new place has. Your lawyers can decide with ours how much
you owe us back.” And with that they vanished, leaving the top Gateway apartment vacant.

At four that afternoon, Zorn assembled his war cabinet and asked: “What did we do wrong, to lose a great couple like the Mallorys? They were so kind to me on my first day. I really liked them and this failure makes me sick.”

As he spoke, Krenek and Miss Foxworth looked at each other and suppressed giggles, but Nurse Varney was willing to give her new boss the truth: “Dr. Andy, the Mallorys have been in and out of this place three times. They’re here, they love it. They see an attractive private house somewhere, and off they go. Six weeks later they’re back here, and the following spring out they go again.” Krenek and Foxworth nodded in agreement.

“Then why do we fool with them? If they give us that kind of irrational trouble?”

Again Nurse Varney became the reporter: “When they apply to come back in, Mr. Krenek says “To hell with them” but Miss Foxworth sees the buy-in money and the big monthly fees.”

“And what do you say, if you’re closest to them?” he asked the nurse.

“I say that about six weeks from now Mr. and Mrs. Chris Mallory will be in this room, begging you to take them back.” She was a wise prophet, because five weeks later the Mallorys came swinging into the parking lot in their Cadillac to inform Dr. Zorn that life on the island had proved to them that they were happiest at the Palms, and could he make arrangements immediately to let them have their customary apartment: “The big one at the peninsula end of floor seven would be just right,” and with smiles that could have warmed the entire west coast of Florida, they reminded Zorn that it was in that apartment, with them, that he had begun his tenure at the Palms. And then they uttered a heart-winning line that would become famous throughout the center: “We’re really back because of you, Dr. Zorn. You know how to manage this place from A to Z.” Mrs. Mallory paused, poked Krenek in the ribs and asked playfully: “Don’t you get it—Andy to Zorn.” Krenek looked away in amused disgust, but Miss Foxworth could not suppress a giggle.

At this point Zorn said: “I think the Mallorys should wait outside and allow me to consult with my colleagues about what we should do in this case.” As the amiable couple rose to go, expressing no displeasure at having been dismissed for the moment, Zorn could
not keep from assuring them that he had been warmly impressed by the way they had treated him on that first day: “We’ll see what can be worked out.”

When he was alone with his warring staff members he asked for specifics that would justify Krenek’s harsh opposition to the Mallorys, and Krenek was quick to reply: “They drive me nuts. Have for all the years I’ve been here. Initially they could never agree about coming into the Palms. He originally dragged his feet, said he was only seventy-nine and not about to end his life in what he called ‘God’s warehouse.’ ”

“How about his wife?”

“She was two years younger, seventy-seven and absolutely fed up with keeping a large house and entertaining his friends.”

“And she prevailed?”

“Yep, they moved in, fought all the time, made people uneasy, and moved out, with him blasting the place.”

“But they came back?”

“Yep, and now it was he who wanted the easy living and she yammering like crazy against the early dining hours. More fights, more uneasiness. But always brought with them her big Cadillac. They loved it. They’re mad about dancing and take couples from here into Tampa for evening dinners. Yep, they go dancing at least one night a week.”

“So why did they leave the second time?”

“They told me that they both agreed that they were too young for the long rest. They wanted their own small apartment, their own eating hours, their Cadillac and their dancing. This time you should say no. Because, sure as blazes, six months from now they’ll want out again. Too much wear and tear on the system.”

“But Miss Foxworth, you say bring them back in?”

“I do. They want their big apartment back, and I believe I can negotiate a hefty buy-in. They’re loaded, and I think they’ll go for it.”

“Don’t they have any children to express an interest in what they do?” Zorn asked, and Miss Foxworth said: “The children, in their fifties, are a messy lot. They signed the contracts the first two times and I found them detestable. They haggled over every penny. The good part about the proposed deal this time is that the children are not involved. The old folks told me: ‘This will probably be our last home. We’ll engineer it ourselves,’ and they’re ready to sign.”

“For how much?”

“It’s a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar buy-in, so that, plus the monthly fee, would represent a lot of income. If I can’t negotiate with them I know you could. They told me one of the reasons why they wanted to come back was that you gave the place class. They were never happy with Mr. Krenek.”

“Nor I with them,” Ken said. “And I warn you, Andy, if you do allow them in, you’ll face a messy situation before long. They’ll want out and their money back.”

Zorn, feeling that he understood the facts and the sensible, though contradictory, opinions of Krenek and Foxworth, asked Nurse Varney to call the Mallorys back into the meeting. When he saw the cheerful pair, totally unaware that they had been behaving foolishly, he had to smile, for he liked them and felt sure there was a place for them in the Palms, if only they would behave reasonably.

As if he were a benevolent schoolmaster consulting with high school students who had been temporarily suspended, he opened the session with a conciliatory question: “Why would you good people want to come back a third time? When you left us before in such disdain?”

Mr. Mallory spoke: “We realized that all our real friends are here. When you reach ninety there aren’t too many left out there.”

“And you think that this time you might make it stick?”

She spoke: “In here you can always find a bridge game, and that’s not so easy out there.”

“You brought your Cadillac with you?”

“Never be without that,” she said. “And Chris still has his little Pontiac. Think how tied down you’d be without your car when you grow sick of the place and want to drift off.”

“So even as you apply for readmission,” Zorn said, “you confess that one of these days you’ll want to drift off again?”

“I meant on a day-to-day basis. For the long haul, I don’t see how we can do much better than right here.”

Mrs. Mallory said: “The truth is, Dr. Zorn, he became worried about how he could celebrate his ninetieth birthday out there. Who would come? All our friends are here, built in, can’t escape.”

“I understand you have children, grandchildren. Certainly they’d be on hand. Ninety years, remarkable.”

Chris Mallory answered sadly: “They are not the kind of people one would elect to have at one’s celebration. They’re shocked and say so, repeatedly, that we still go dancing. To tell you the truth, Dr.
Zorn, we were drawn back here as if huge magnets were pulling at us.”

Mrs. Mallory looked at Krenek, and laughed: “Let’s confess it, Chris. The trouble the other two times was that we were too young to appreciate the good things we had here. Now that we’re older, and I must say, wiser, the place looks much more attractive than it did last time. Am I to understand, Miss Foxworth, that we might have that fine set of rooms with the big windows we had before?”

“That’s up to the management. Your record here isn’t very good, you know.”

“We’re talking with the management, aren’t we?” Mrs. Mallory asked, staring brightly at Dr. Zorn. Her husband said: “We know Mr. Krenek’s against us, but Miss Foxworth knows that we pay on time, and handsomely, so isn’t it up to you, Doctor?”

Zorn found it easy to reach a decision. Turning to the Mallorys, he said: “I like your style. A place like ours profits from your presence. You inspire our older members and, quite frankly, you inspire me. But this time you have to stay put. We want two full years’ fees in advance.” Then, with everyone smiling, he added: “You two really are a pair of yo-yos, but now you have to settle down.”

“Done!” Mallory said. “Miss Foxworth, prepare the papers, and this time it’s for keeps.”

“That’s good of you, Mr. Mallory,” Miss Foxworth said, “but it’s the first part that will be of greater importance to us, two years’ guaranteed occupancy by you, with fees paid in advance. Those who don’t call you the Yo-yos call you the Dancing Mallorys, and we don’t want you dancing out of here as soon as something displeases you.”

“As we grow older,” Mallory said, “we grow more tolerant. And with three experts like you to keep this place in good condition, you’ll find us helpful, too.”

With gracious smiles they shook hands all around. “Can we move our furniture in this afternoon?” Mrs. Mallory asked. “Since the pieces have been here twice before, we know they’ll fit,” and Mr. Mallory asked if the office machine could run off fifty copies of their announcement of a welcome-home party to be given in their apartment the next afternoon at three. “Inviting our neighbors back to resume the good old days.”

When they were gone, Zorn told his colleagues: “I’m sort of dizzy. You’ve really had to swing and sway with that pair, Ken, haven’t you?”

The welcome-home party the next afternoon turned out to be a raucous affair. Because too many residents wanted to attend what they knew would be a first-class bash, it had to be moved from the Mallorys’ apartment to the recreation area, where two waiters serving as bartenders dispensed so many alcoholic drinks that an observer might have thought he was attending a bacchanalia.

The highlight of the party came when Ken Krenek appeared in a chef’s costume to supervise the serving of an excellent pizza, Buffalo wings, Vietnamese egg rolls with paper-thin crust, and skewers of chicken liver and Indonesian saté. Zorn, watching his well-to-do residents devour the food and guzzle the booze, thought: How nice we’re having our own little saturnalia. But his mood darkened a bit when he saw that the widows, living on retirement funds more restricted than the Mallorys’, were not drinking but were choosing with care the most healthful food items: “They’re getting a free feast, so they won’t have to pay some restaurant for that day’s second meal,” and he smiled indulgently as many of them slyly slipped extra servings of meat into their handbags to eat later. He felt pleased that his center could accommodate both the wealthy and those of more moderate means.

When Dr. Zorn had made his initial tours of his new command, he had quickly learned that Gateways, the retirement area of the Palms, had two focal points around which life revolved.

First was the main reception desk inside the main entrance where messages, mail and telephone calls were distributed to their proper recipients. An African-American woman with an IQ of nearly 200 and an unflappable disposition masterminded this battle station and exerted iron control over postmen, parcel-delivery people and inhabitants. Her name was Delia, and both Dr. Zorn and Mr. Krenek deferred to her when the orderly administration of traffic into and out of Gateways was involved. She handled about fifty crises an hour and was able to resolve most of them without losing her temper.

The other focus was the dining room, a spacious, well-organized area containing thirty commodious tables and big windows overlooking both the pool to the south and the channel to the west. Carpeted and with its ceiling lined by soundproofing material, it was a quiet room, decorated in equally quiet pastel colors and filled with
sturdy oaken tables, each with four armchairs. Since a table could hold only four diners, the room could obviously seat no more than a hundred and twenty; a long table near the door could seat ten more. But since the Palms had accommodation in Gateways for several hundred residents, there had to be an additional dining room, but it was a small affair frequented by residents who wanted to dine early at five o’clock or even four-thirty.

The master dining room opened at half past five, an hour that almost every newcomer protested but to which he or she quickly adjusted, forgetting that in civilized society one dined at seven or even eight. One dined early at the Palms or one ate in one’s room. Breakfast and lunch were also served, of course, but since monthly fees covered only one meal a day, almost everyone opted for dinner, so that the main room was usually filled to capacity in the evening.

The room came to life at a quarter past five each weekday night when hungry inhabitants lined up early to assure themselves of choice seating and hot food. By ten minutes to six, the room was buzzing. In addition to its tasteful decorations based on a Mediterranean theme, the room was filled, as one elderly woman said, “with those adorable high school girls, and the boys, too, who wait tables.” As Zorn learned, the Palms had an arrangement with two nearby high schools whereby seniors in training for food-service occupations would work six evenings a week as waiters and waitresses and earn a wage, which, if saved, could pay much of their first-year tuition at one of the nearby junior colleges. They were a handsome lot, seventeen and eighteen years old and well trained by the Palms staff. With surprising speed these youngsters memorized the names of many of the residents, who in turn mastered the names of the young people so that the room resembled more a family gathering place than a restaurant.

Residents were not assigned specific tables; they were expected to drift in as they wished and sit at a different table each night, which meant that one dined with someone different most nights of the week. Usually two married couples occupied a table, but since there were many widows and widowers, some tables might be composed of four unmarried persons, and they did not have to be two men and two women. They could be any mix, which made for warm socializing. There was also that one long table at the western door, and here lone people were invited to dine together in general camaraderie.

“The room looks so civilized,” Zorn told Krenek after his third inspection, “that we ought to have flowers on different tables throughout the week.” Ken objected: “That would cost money,” to which Zorn replied: “Take it out of my floating fund,” and in the following weeks the room looked even more inviting.

When Andy first circulated through the hall he had noticed an anomaly. All the tables were either small squares seating four, and the long, rectangular No. 29 seating ten, except for one round table, No. 4, in the extreme southeast corner. He tried to deduce its purpose. It could seat five, but on most nights it held only four occupants who appeared to be, like those at the other tables, a mixed lot. On some nights, however, the same four men occupied the table, apparently in deep conversation.