Vultures at Twilight (6 page)

‘You'd mentioned. But he didn't stay long.'

‘No, and I could never get him to tell me why, other than he didn't agree with their business practices.'

‘Great, so you're telling me that I'm about to try and put my mother into some kind of snake pit?'

‘Ada,' I said, looking at the concern on her face, and feeling such affection, wishing she didn't have to go through this. ‘We'll check it out. Like you said, you've got to do something. We just need to keep our eyes open.'

‘I know. I hate to say it, but I've even thought of moving back to the city. Someone's got to look after her. And apparently as the youngest daughter . . . I just don't know what to do.'

Something caught in my throat at the thought of losing her, of not seeing her every day, and, if I were being honest, which I was trying to desperately not to be, I knew that the feelings I had for Ada had somehow passed the ‘best friends' point. And how was that possible? I was a married woman for thirty-seven years, raised two children and had successfully stomped down any feelings I might have had for other women. But right now, looking at Ada and realizing she might move away, was more than I could bear. ‘We'll figure this out,' I said, as much for her as for me. ‘Let me grab my coat, aside from Bradley's issue – whatever it was – everyone raves about Nillewaug. I'm sure it's lovely.'

FOUR

T
olliver Jacobs' hands shook as he hung up. Philip had been missing since Friday, and now he knew why. Why he wasn't answering his cell. Why he hadn't called.
Dead.

As he got up to shut his office door; his knees threatened to buckle. ‘Oh God.' The information wormed into his brain. ‘Oh God.' He sank to his chair. How would he be able to face the others, to face the day, to face anything? He thought of their employees, most of them had been hired by Philip, what would they say? What would they think?

Tolliver and Philip had lived with the gossip, the conversations cut short, the rolling eyes. He knew what they must be thinking, that he and Philip had a fight. But not this. He held his head in his hands. ‘Oh God.' He pictured Philip with his perfect teeth and blue-green eyes.

‘I think we may have found your partner,' the woman detective had said. Hope had surged only to be cut off by her next statement. ‘We need you to identify the body.'

‘Oh God. Oh God.' Tolliver tried to focus. What was he supposed to do? Maybe it wasn't Philip. But inside, he knew. Nothing short of death could account for the past five days. Not a word. After seventeen years, he and Philip had never been apart for more than a week. Since graduate school, the two men had been inseparable.

Tolliver tried to map a course of action. He took a deep breath, and stood.
Yes
,
just move
. Then, he was through the door with what he hoped was a normal expression on his face as he passed the desks of his buyers.

‘I have to take care of some errands,' he told Gretchen, his secretary. ‘If you need me, I'll have my cell.'

‘Is everything OK?' she asked, her dark eyes searching out his.

‘No, but . . .' He met her gaze, and then looked around at half a dozen faces, all turned toward him, wondering. ‘Never mind.'

He pushed open the ancient iron-studded door, and stepped out into the cool October air and the crackling of fallen leaves. He walked across the beautifully landscaped grounds of Grenville Antiques, each specimen tree, each weathered marble sculpture, a tribute to Philip's eye and unfailing taste.
Keep moving
, he thought as he turned the key in his 5 series BMW. The powerful engine purred. But as he rode past their red warehouse, where Philip had painted a herd of whimsical Holsteins, his resolve faltered. He skidded to a stop, their last argument, more heated than any they'd ever had, played over and over. Philip storming out, his final words: ‘I need space, Tolliver. Don't push me on this!'

Gasping for breath, Tolliver pulled off on to the gravel drive, and with his hands white-knuckled to the wheel, he sobbed.

FIVE

A
s Delia Preston waxed eloquent about the virtues of Nillewaug Village, I grew increasingly anxious. I couldn't tell if it was the polished administrator's rapid-fire presentation, her too-red Chanel knock-off suit, her perfect ash-blonde upsweep, her flawless makeup, her stagey office with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the man-made pond and waterfall four stories below, or the hard fact that Ada was contemplating a move back to New York. I desperately wanted this to be the solution. Move Rose – possibly kicking and screaming from her fourteenth-floor rent-stabilized apartment on Rivington – to a light and lovely unit at Nillewaug. Problem was, everything that came through Delia's lip-sticked mouth was tripping alarms, and I couldn't tell why. Was it just that she looked like a woman trying too hard to stay pretty, like some ex beauty queen of indeterminate age, or was it more to do with the reasons why Bradley had stopped working here? ‘
It just doesn't feel right,
' he'd said, ten years back when he'd resigned after a very brief stint as their first medical director. At the time I'd not pressed for details.

‘Every comfort and consideration has been taken into account,' she boasted. ‘Nillewaug Village is the complete life-care community. We are committed to the Nillewaug Promise.' Delia paused, she made eye contact first with me and then with Ada. ‘Once the Promise Agreement is signed, we will take care of everything. Absolutely everything. There's no need—'

‘How does it work?' Ada interrupted.

‘What do you mean?' The Administrative Director asked.

‘I understand the basics. There's a one-time buy-in for your unit and then if you start to lose it, they stick you in the nursing home part.'

Delia looked at Ada, taken aback by her bluntness. I wanted to applaud.

Ms Preston deftly volleyed, spinning a more cheery light. ‘I can see you've grasped the basics, but Nillewaug offers so much. The best way to show you is to take you on a tour.'

‘Yes,' said Ada as she got to her feet, both of us still in jeans, sweatshirts and sneakers from the morning's marathon at Evie's. ‘I suppose we'd better. Coming Lil?'

‘Wouldn't miss it,' I said, entertaining pleasant thoughts of Ms Preston slipping in her elegant red pumps.

‘Our first stop, the dining room. As you see –' the administrator waved her arm, like a game-show hostess displaying a new washer-dryer – ‘it looks nothing like a cafeteria, but more like a fine restaurant.'

She had a point. The wood-paneled room was tastefully decorated with Queen Anne style furniture and sparkling brass chandeliers. Several diners, some engaged in quiet conversation, looked up as we entered.

I smiled, recognizing a couple faces. Apparently, we were not big news and after a cursory look, they returned to their meals. The air was heavy with the smells of beef Wellington and home-made rolls that steamed from inside linen-covered baskets. My mouth watered.

‘Today we're having a choice of beef or scallops.' She looked at Ada. ‘And for our Jewish residents we also have a kosher entrée. And people can certainly prepare their own meals in their apartments, but most of our residents come down for at least one meal a day. The socialization is so important, and we have a world-class chef.'

Ada wandered to one of the tables and examined its surface.

‘Nice, aren't they?' Ms Preston said, trailing her prospective customer. ‘It's hand-tatted Brussels lace.'

Sure enough, at each setting were exquisite doilies carefully protected beneath a layer of glass.

‘We find they give you the feel of tablecloths without the need to do laundry. Everything wipes clean with a sponge,' Ms Preston gushed.

‘Everything?' Ada asked, feeling the back of a mauve and gray upholstered chair.

‘Yes.' Delia graced us with a dazzling smile. ‘All of the fabrics are completely stain resistant. In fact –' she lowered to a whisper – ‘they're guaranteed against all bodily fluids.'

‘Bodily fluids?' I commented.

‘Well,' she conceded with a tiny grimace, ‘occasionally . . . accidents.'

I looked at Ada to see what effect that had on her. Apparently, she was a woman with a mission, and not to be deterred by placing her mother with some leaky neighbors.

‘I'd like to see one of the apartments,' she said.

‘That's a great idea!' Delia said. ‘We have two bedroom, one bedroom and studios. Any preference?'

Ada exhaled heavily. ‘I suppose the biggest you've got. My mother has a ton of stuff and getting her to part with any of it is a battle I'm not ready for.'

Delia prattled as electric doors slid shut. ‘So you both live at Pilgrim's Progress. Many of our residents come from there. Of course we offer a number of conveniences that they are just not able to accommodate.'

‘Such as?' I asked, noting how smooth and motionless Delia's forehead was.
Botox?

‘The full spectrum of personal care.'

Maybe I was being too critical, everything looked lovely. The halls decorated in contrasting shades of plum, gray and ivory. In the distance, I watched an elderly lady with Parkinson's shuffle toward her apartment. Each of her steps a small victory as she started and stopped, carefully gripping the handrail that ran the entire length of the wall.
Yes, for that woman this makes sense.
And I thought of Rose, who'd hate this place. But what were the options? I watched Ada as she was led into the model two-bedroom unit. Of course she'd put family first, and if that meant moving back to Manhattan or maybe having Rose move in with her . . . But I knew those long weeks of post-angio had been a nightmare for Ada. Because our mirror-image condos share an adjoining wall I'd heard it all. Embarrassing to admit that hadn't been the first time I'd eavesdropped. And here's where I go from nosy neighbor into stalker, I've actually listened at the wall with Bradley's stethoscope. We had both settled in Pilgrim's Progress eight years ago. It was part of Bradley's master plan to sell the big white house on High Street, with his increasingly frustrating medical practice downstairs, and retire to a life of golf, travel and reading. Like most of Grenville, we'd taken drives through the sparkling new condos, and he already had become a member of the golf club. But Bradley, who was twelve years older than me, wasn't ready to retire, regardless of what he'd said. After we moved to Pilgrim's Progress he became the medical director for half a dozen area nursing homes. His supposed retirement was mostly late-night emergency calls, very little golf, and then one night two years back . . .

If I could have erased a single memory from my mind, it would have been the night I woke to find him dead. The phone on his side of the bed had been ringing, and I wondered why he hadn't picked up. To this day, I can't understand how I slept as my husband died. For months, I tortured myself, wondering ‘what if ?' What if I had woken and given him CPR? Could I have saved him? Bradley would say that modern medicine had come miles in cardiology; that it was easier to keep people alive with bypass surgery and angioplasty. Why didn't I wake up?

As for Ada, she and Harry moved in to the adjoining condo three months after us. Harry, a lifetime smoker, had end-stage emphysema. My earliest impression was that they'd make fine neighbors, but really, what did we have in common? This red-headed Jewish woman with her largely silent husband and a house that reeked of stale tobacco. I'd made the snap assessment that ours would be a cordial, but reserved relationship. But then, a couple weeks after they'd settled, I'd overheard an argument through the connecting wall. Ada was being hounded by her visiting daughter and son-in-law. They were insisting that Harry be moved to a nursing home. ‘Dad requires twenty-four hour care. The doctor says he needs oxygen and physical therapy. You can't provide that.'

Her son-in-law had called her foolish and had made it clear that he and Susan had enough to take care of with their two children. Repeatedly he had said, ‘Don't look to us to bail you out when this doesn't work.'

I remembered thinking that Harry must have heard the whole thing; how horrible. Later, as I came to know him, I learned that on top of his failing lungs and heart, he had Alzheimer's.

Ada had kept her voice low – which is why I simply had to use the stethoscope – as she'd stood her ground, and through the adjoining wall I'd heard: ‘Susan, I will always love you, but right now I want you and Jack to leave me and your father alone. I vowed for better for worse and I intend to make good on it.'

With my ear to the wall, I'd wept and waited until they had driven off, and then, armed with an apple sour-cream coffeecake from the Pilgrim's Progress Bakery, I had called on Ada.

Now, as I trailed behind my friend and the Nillewaug director, I began to understand. Ada was at a crossroads. Her brothers and sisters – two in Florida, one in California and one in Arizona – were all much older and all had a shopping list of health issues. When Rose had her heart attack they'd all called, but not one was able to visit, citing various crises of their own.

As we wandered through the empty deluxe two-bedroom unit, I caught hints of its previous owner: a scrap of pink-flowered contact paper in the bottom of a closet drawer, a forgotten photograph of smiling, golden-haired children taped to the inside of a kitchen cupboard, and a series of stainless steel safety bars in the bathroom, kitchen and hallway.

My shudder had returned. Was the previous resident dead or had she declined to the point where they had taken her to one of the two nursing home portions of Nillewaug?

I listened as Ada questioned the director. ‘So, how much does this apartment go for?'

‘Well, they're not really apartments per se.'

‘How much?'

‘This very one?' Delia asked, her eyes fixed on Ada, something calculating and intelligent assessing her prospective client.