Recessional: A Novel (34 page)

One week after the funeral, Mrs. Umlauf, having been assured by the family lawyers that the entire lumber estate was left not in son Ludwig’s control but in hers, turned its management over to her accountants and boarded a train for the west coast of Florida. She went directly to the office of a real estate agent, who cried: “Coming south from those horrible winters in northern Michigan, you’ve landed in paradise, Mrs. Umlauf. Is that name Swedish, perhaps?”

She hated that question. Swedes were people in Minnesota that others made jokes about. “The name is pure German. From the heartland of that country.”

“I can see you’re the kind of woman who knows what she wants. I’m going to drive you over to that chain of little islands across the waterway we call the channel, and there you’ll find some of the best building sites in Florida, west coast or east.” When he reached Island 5
he took her to the inland waterfront and showed her how a house built on this site would enjoy the best possible orientation: “Away from the high winds that sometimes blow in from the gulf, you have your own lovely waterway in your lap, and across the channel that wonderful open land. But at the far end they’ve built a state-of-the-art retirement area, the Palms. Look into it, you being so close at hand—if you take this place, that is, and build your dream home here. I represent the people operating the Palms, if you’re ever interested.”

Brusquely she dismissed the idea, refusing to accept his card: “I would never set foot inside a retirement home—full of lonely widows and paupers abandoned by their families.”

“You are so right!” the agent enthused. “You should have your own home. Sit on your patio in the evening and watch the dolphins and the sailboats go by.” When he saw that she was interested in the land he assured her: “The day you buy this heavenly spot, my brother-in-law can start building your dream house ten feet in from that glorious water.”

Two days later she bought the land, and in next to no time had the agent’s brother-in-law building her dream house. The moment it was finished, with electricity and water connected, she moved in with just a bed, a few chairs and kitchen equipment: “I’ll furnish as I go along. That way I’ll be sure I won’t buy anything I don’t really need.”

The house, a spacious one-story tropical affair with a red-tiled back porch facing the waterway, had three bedrooms plus another roomy one with its own kitchen, dining room and a private entrance that made it a separate apartment for her son. Ludwig, and his wife, Berta, who wondered why, if Mrs. Umlauf disliked her so vehemently, she insisted on having the younger Umlaufs sharing her house again. Berta eventually came up with two explanations: she was afraid of living alone, and the old man’s will dictated that Ludwig would not inherit the family business until his mother’s death—to Berta an indication that, like her, the old man had been suspicious of his son’s ability. There was a third reason, which Mrs. Umlauf often recited to Ludwig and Berta: “It’s your duty to look after your mother. What would the people in Marquette say if they heard you’d abandoned me?”

“But if I stay down here,” Ludwig asked almost petulantly, “who’ll take care of the lumber in Michigan?” and his mother informed him: “I’ll be in charge—through our accountants in Marquette,”
and when Berta heard these dismissive words she knew that whereas she too had wanted to come to Florida, she was now a prisoner here, just as she had been in Michigan. Nor was there any change in her personal hell, for her mother-in-law reminded Berta and anyone else who would listen that it was she, Mrs. Umlauf, who provided everything. She dominated Berta and used her like a slave. Why didn’t Ludwig object to such debasement of his wife? He had never stood up for his own rights against his domineering father and so lacked the experience and fortitude to challenge his mother.

The Umlauf place, as it was called, was recognized as one of the finest houses on the chain of man-made islands, for it was well designed, sturdily built, handsomely landscaped and eventually properly furnished. Its screened-in porch provided a grand view of the waterway and the wild savanna on the opposite shore, but what went on inside the house was not pleasant, for as Mrs. Umlauf aged she became increasingly dictatorial. When Berta invited her son’s family—Noel, his wife, Gretchen, and their bright son, Victor—to visit, the cantankerous old woman complained so bitterly about the little noise they made, and was so harsh in reprimanding them, that Noel and Gretchen begged Berta for permission to leave before their planned visit was over, and one time Noel actually said: “Mother, when I leave this polluted place I might never return.”

“Oh, Noel! Don’t surrender the beauty of this place because an evil-minded old woman has spoiled it for you,” but he said: “Watching her in action is too painful.”

Berta was the first to notice that Mrs. Umlauf’s health was deteriorating, but when she pointed this out to her husband, he dismissed the idea: “She’s cranky. Always has been, but it’s our duty to pamper her,” and indeed it was, for she still controlled the family fortune. However, her decline accelerated so noticeably that Berta herself called the local medic, Dr. Farquhar, who said as soon as he saw the old lady and took a few tests: “She’s in far worse condition than she realizes or you guessed. She ought to go immediately into some center that can give her twenty-four-hour care. If you know of no such places, I can steer you to one.”

When Ludwig was informed of the diagnosis he said firmly: “My mother will never be stuck away in a nursing home. What would people say of a son who allowed that?” and it was on the basis of this oft-repeated statement that the Umlauf couple arranged the patterns
that would dominate their lives in Florida. Old Mrs. Umlauf, fading rapidly, required almost constant attention, for her mind wandered; she was not always sure where she was; she could not begin to feed herself, and she became incontinent.

She seemed to take perverse pleasure in being incontinent at the most outrageous times and places. Her son, who was appalled at such accidents, found it impossible to cope with them and the task fell to Berta. One day when four accidents occurred, necessitating repeated cleanups, Berta said in tears: “Ludwig, we can’t go on like this. We’ve got to find a better solution.” But he adamantly refused to allow her to look for a nursing home or to employ outside help: “It’s our duty to look after her. No mother of mine will ever go into a nursing home. Our friends in Marquette would be horrified.”

In despair, Berta slipped out one day to visit with Dr. Farquhar in his office: “I’m in danger of losing my mind. What can I do?”

“Berta, many families face difficult problems like this. Your case isn’t special.”

“What do the others do?”

“If they have money, they find a responsible nursing home. If they can’t afford that, and many can’t, they cope.”

“How?”

“The way you are.”

“And if I say I can’t?”

“At one point or another, they all do. But in the end they cope.”

“Am I close to a nervous breakdown?”

“You may be. I’ve been watching you!”

“Would you tell my husband? He seems not to be aware.”

“Husbands frequently aren’t.” When it appeared that Farquhar too was turning a deaf ear to her predicament, Berta lost control. Bowing her head and weeping pitifully, she whimpered: “If I can find no help from anyone, what can I do?” The sight of this doughty little woman so overcome by her terrible problems made the doctor realize that he must intrude in family affairs more deeply than he wished.

“I’ll try to make your husband understand.”

At first Ludwig refused to listen: “Looking after Mother is the Christian thing to do.” This rote repetition infuriated Farquhar, who snapped: “Don’t be ridiculous. Your family is in such pitiful shape that your Christian duty is to straighten it out.” When Ludwig shook his head negatively, Farquhar said in a more persuasive voice: “Ludwig. can’t I make you see that if you don’t get help for Berta right
away, you’re going to have two terribly sick women on your hands? Then what are you going to do?”

The doctor delivered this judgment with such grim force that Umlauf had to listen: “What do you think I should do?”

“Get a nurse to help through the night. And two days a week, you watch your mother so that Berta can be free to do whatever she wants to do.”

“She wouldn’t want to be away from Mother, knowing that she might need her.” He spoke so confidently on Berta’s behalf that Dr. Farquhar laughed: “Husbands often fail to see that their wives are having deep trouble. Mr. Umlauf, let me send you an excellent practical nurse I often use. She’ll make this place a home again,” and grudgingly Ludwig agreed, although he feared that the expense would be tremendous.

The nurse was a rather large black woman, who arrived in a very small car which she parked with considerable skill. Her name was Lucy Canfield and she did exactly what Dr. Farquhar had predicted; she brought comfort and ease to the Umlauf home. Appearing each afternoon at five, she prepared a light supper for herself and the family, then bathed Mrs. Umlauf and prepared her for bed. When the old woman raised a rumpus during the night, as she loved to do, Lucy was there to absorb the abuse, allowing the younger Mrs. Umlauf to sleep.

But week by week the patient declined until at last she lay immobile in bed, a harridan who screamed at everyone, demanded constant attention day and night, and approached her certain death without a shred of dignity. When Berta recalled her own mother’s behavior in her last moments, she wept at the contrast. Her mother had said quietly one afternoon: “Today I would like to see the sunset,” and Berta had replied: “It’s a mite cold out there, Momma,” but the sun was so brilliant as it dipped toward the west that she complied with her mother’s wish. Bundling her against the wind, she wheeled her onto the porch from which she could see both the dying sun and Lake Superior, and there the old lady sat, hands folded, to view for the last time a scene she loved. When Berta came to fetch her, she was dead.

For three agonizing days Mrs. Umlauf wrestled with her bedclothes, soiled her sheets, screamed at Lucy for her clumsiness, at her son for his indifference and at Berta for ruining her son’s life. On the fourth day she died, and although no one said: “It was a mercy,” the
three who had taken care of her believed it was. At the funeral, which was sparsely attended, Berta renewed her earlier vow: “I will not die like this. There must be a better way.”

Life became easier with the passing of Mrs. Umlauf, and Berta was allowed to bring down her son, who had been looking after the Umlauf lumbering empire, and his high-spirited wife and son to spend long vacations in the near-empty house. But Ludwig’s behavior began to change, and Berta saw clearly that her husband was beginning to recapitulate the steady decline of his mother. He became forgetful of even the simplest details. He was increasingly irritable. He lost interest in things and would sit for long periods out on the enclosed porch staring at the waterway but finding no pleasure in it. What really surprised Berta was that he turned over the financial management of his mother’s estate to the accountants in Marquette, so that Berta lived in a kind of shapeless world, which distressed her.

Two aspects of his behavior caused her serious apprehension. He loved to drive but became increasingly unable to do so and refused to turn in his driver’s license. When Berta suggested he do so, he shouted at her that he could still drive as well as ever. This first problem was solved by Dr. Farquhar, who refused to certify his eligibility for a renewal, and because the situation was acute, he arranged for a policeman to come to the house and ask for the canceled license. With a concession that surprised everyone, Ludwig turned over the precious document and allowed Berta to drive him, even thanking her when she did.

The other problem was never solved. From time to time Berta would enter a room to speak with him only to find that he had vanished, disappeared without any warning that he was going to be out taking a walk. Frightened at what might have happened to him, she would run about the neighborhood, over the bridges that joined the islands, and find him often a far distance from home, striding along happily, unaware of where he was or by what route he might be able to return home. But he was always glad to see his wife and did allow her to lead him back.

After the fourth or fifth such episode she consulted Dr. Farquhar, who listened, then said: “Berta, the doctors at the top of our profession have recently defined what appears to be an old disease with a new name. We’ve always had cases like your mother-in-law’s and Ludwig’s, senility we called it. But now they’ve identified a special type of senility, Alzheimer’s disease, named for the doctor who described
it. He was a German at the beginning of the century—it’s taken all that time for his discovery to be accepted. I think Ludwig has Alzheimer’s.

“The basic thing you must understand is that it’s like no other disease we know. A doctor cannot say for sure that a patient has it. No measurable or testable symptoms, no specific cause.”

“Then how do you know?”

“When the patient dies, an autopsy of the brain shows that radical changes had taken place. The brain cells had died. A large proportion of the connections that control memory, reasoning, the ability to recognize old friends or family members, they’d been destroyed. And that visual inspection of the dead brain during an autopsy is the only sure proof.”

“Then how can you say that Ludwig might have this disease?”

“Sounds silly but what I’m about to say is true. We investigate and dismiss one possibility after another. Ordinary brain damage? Not that. Malfunctioning of the carotid arteries that carry blood and oxygen to the brain? Not that. Standard decline into senility with weakening of the entire body? Not that. When we’ve thrown out all the logical possibilities, what we have left has to be Alzheimer’s.”

“Will you please start the testing on Ludwig? I want him given every chance of a decent life.”

“We’ve already done most of the tests—that is, you have.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you’re surprisingly well informed on these matters. Comes from what you’ve told me about the deaths of your in-laws. You tell me that Ludwig cannot remember what happened a few days ago but he rambles on about events that happened decades ago. You say that sometimes he looks at you and cannot remember who you are. And most important, that he seems to be in good health because he takes long walks but never knows where he winds up or how to get back. Classic descriptions, Berta.”