Part 1

 This novella has been divided into three posts to make it easier to find your place if you are reading it as time allows. The Blog Archive menu at the right has links to Parts 2 and 3.


                                                                  

                                       Madame Grumpetta

                                             

As soon as she unpacked the last box in the living room of the run-down Cape Cod, Shirley stooped and lifted the old-fashioned touch-tone telephone. Extracting the Yellow Pages from between the phone and the floor, she made a mental note to use one of the packing cartons as a phone table till she could hunt something up at a rummage sale.  

She carried the Yellow Pages to the kitchen counter.  She flopped the book down on the speckled formica counter, then went to the naked sink where a small plastic water glass sat next to the faucet, its only companions an empty café curtain rod and a metal piece from the bottom of the refrigerator.  Shirley filled the glass with cold water and brought it back to the counter, and took a few gulps before opening the large book to the “N” listings.  A short entry for Nursing Homes directed her to Retirement and Convalescent Centers.

The “R” section was almost entirely restaurants:  Cannoli’s Italian Garden, Platypus Pizza, Greek Heaven (four locations, now at Sweetwater Plaza behind CVS), Mamaw’s Country Creations.  Shirley flipped the tissue-thin pages as she finished her water and set the glass down.  There!  She’d found Retirement and Convalescent Centers.  She needed a place big enough to afford a picture ad, but not too huge.  Maybe a quarter-page or half-page ad, or a full-page one if it was black-and-white.  She looked at the left-hand page, saw nothing she could use, and moved to the right-hand page.  Wait, this one looked pretty good:

Wilbur Manor Apartments Offering Private Units, Spousal Suites, Assisted Living, and Licensed Health Aides.  Helping families find the best in every stage of life!  *Caring, friendly staff   *Exercise Facility   *Shuttle Service to Hairdresser, Medical Offices   *Secure Environment W/Computerized Alarm System   *Medicare Approved, Board Certified

Shirley looked up from the Yellow Pages.  The wall clock said eight o’clock and who knew when the office opened?  She’d try.  The phone number was printed in an ornate, spider-thin italic font, frustratingly difficult to decipher.  Shirley chanted the last four digits as she walked to the living room: “1779, 1779. . .”  She settled herself cross-legged on the matted carpet and dialed 841-1779.  The number rang as a high-pitched buzz, and there were nine of these buzzes before Shirley hung up.  She looked at her watch and decided to try again at 8:10.  

The arbiter from Family Court had met with her lawyer, Ms. Burge, two months ago, and when Shirley came in for her late-afternoon appointment at Hadley, Burge & Saukakis, Ms. Burge had a list ready.  In order to regain custody of Thad and Cleo, Shirley first needed to occupy a rental home for a year or purchase a home and record the deed with the county registrar, bringing the registration form in to be placed in the court records.

Second on the list, she had to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings or a church-sponsored substance-abuse program and have a red index card signed and dated by whoever chaired the meeting.  Third and last, Shirley had to find employment of at least 25 hours a week.

“Why do I need to work outside the home?” Shirley asked Ms. Burge, whose oversized leather chair swallowed up the attorney’s small frame.  The soft leather let Ms. Burge sink very low behind the massive cherrywood desk.  The lawyer looked as though she were visiting her daddy at work, sitting at his desk and pretending to sign important papers with large flourishes.  

“Isn’t it better for me to be home with the kids?” Shirley continued.  “I cashed out half the investments after the divorce, so I don’t need to bring in a salary for a little while.  I was thinking of taking some graduate courses in social work, or – “

“Howard County has a gender-neutral policy in child custody cases,” said Ms. Burge.  Despite her small size, her voice was clear and resonant.  “I’m afraid that works against some individuals.”  She moved to lean forward on her desk, and paused to scootch her chair in a bit to get her forearms comfortable on the glass-topped cherrywood.  “Most of the time, it’s fathers who need to prove that they can work and support their children.  The county is basically forcing the fathers to pay support to get visitation rights.  I don’t know whether that’s fair or not, but that’s how it’s worked here in the Family Court for a long time.”  Ms. Burge looked down at the top of her desk for a moment.  “So a couple of the male plaintiffs’ lawyers got back at us by demanding that all parents have to meet the employment standard regardless of gender.”  Ms. Burge propped one elbow on her desk and rested her head on her hand as she looked at Shirley.  “The court requires you to have three months’ worth of pay stubs or other proof of employment before you can request a custody hearing.  They would prefer that you remain employed after the hearing, but if the panel finds in your favor and you regain custody, then there isn’t any mechanism for following up on the employment rule.  You won’t have any trouble unless your former spouse can show that the children need food, clothing, medical care, and so on.”

“So if I can find something for three or four months, that’s good enough?” Shirley asked, her eyes down at the purse in her lap, adjusting the D-rings which held the braided leather handle.  

“If you leave work after you regain custody -- and custody’s not a sure thing, because it depends on who you get on your panel – you will need to keep up-to-date medical appointment records, and keep track of your grocery receipts.”  Ms. Burge sat forward, holding a silver pen as a pointer.  “If the children get holes or stains or wear on their clothes and shoes, replace them.  Your former spouse will use any sign of neglect or inattention against you.”

“He lets them run up and down the street with no shoes on,” said Shirley.  She flipped the purse handle back and forth, back and forth.  “Thad left his toothbrush over at Jonathan’s and Steve never got him a new one.  I went over there on visitation and Thad’s teeth were all gross and his breath stank.”

“Your ex-husband has custody,” said Ms. Burge, “and the Family Court tends to leave children where they are if they can.  And you have both the DUI and the resisting-arrest charge that will be –“

“The police officer slapped me,” Shirley said.  “I never did anything.  He twisted my arm and he pushed my face into the side of the patrol car, and when I tried to get in the back seat, I lost my balance and he slapped me and knocked my glasses off.”

“And then you bit him,” said Ms. Burge.  

“I didn’t bite him,” said Shirley.  “When he slapped me, he banged his hand against my teeth and then he –“

“Okay, let’s stop,” said Ms. Burge.  She held her silver pen out, and Shirley closed her mouth and went back to lining up the chrome D-rings on her purse.

“Shirley, I wasn’t giving you my opinion on what happened,” said Ms. Burge, her head again propped on one hand.  She sat up and ran her fingers through her curly auburn hair.  Her gel-coated bangs fell back into place.  She shifted in the huge leather chair.  “What I want you to know is that you are the one who has to tip the see-saw back your way.  Right now your husband – your former husband – is like the big kid sitting on the heavy end of the teeter-totter and you’re the little kid up in the air kicking your legs and trying to get down.”

And you’re the little lawyer sitting in the big chair, thought Shirley, and then felt guilty.

“I believe that you’re the better parent for the children to reside with, Shirley,” said Ms. Burge.  “I’ve met you and I’ve met Steve and I’ve seen both of you with the children.  And I know you are doing AA meetings already on your own, which I think is great.  I’ve got nine years’ sobriety, and I know what kind of work that is.  But the fact is that you were pulled over with the children in the back seat, and you failed the Breathalyzer.  That’s in the court records.  You’re fortunate that the panel will consider letting you have a custody hearing this summer.  That wouldn’t have happened if Steve didn’t have the Domestic Court issues from his previous marriage.”

Shirley wanted to say what a lousy human being Steve had been from Day One of the marriage, but she kept her mouth shut and flipped the purse handle back and forth, back and forth.  

“Normally, I don’t think you would be eligible for a hearing for eighteen months or longer.  We’re lucky.  So let’s just go with what the requirements are set at, and move forward.”  Ms. Burge leaned over to open her desk drawer and Shirley noted that the attorney had to tug hard to move the heavy file drawer out.  Ms. Burge stopped, and sat upright again, looking at Shirley.

“I may not need to pull Job Force and Manpower applications for you,” she said.   “Aren’t you a nurse, or something in the medical line?”

“I’m a certified health aide,” said Shirley.  “I’m allowed to dispense prescribed medication and hook up IV’s if the patient’s already got the port in.  I also have my dietary certification so I can go over the patient menus with the dietician and check for the potassium levels and things like that.”

“Could you find work at a doctor’s office?” said Ms. Burge.

“Nursing homes, usually,” said Shirley. “That’s what I mostly did before the kids were born.  I worked at a plasma donation center too.  Mostly it was nursing homes.  They can get a lot of regular aides to do the bathing and feeding but it’s hard to get certified aides.  They used to have a program at Central Tech West but now you have to go through the nursing school at the university and that’s two years plus a summer internship.  And the homes don’t want to pay those kind of wages so if you’re a certified aide, they can use you like a nurse but the pay’s lower.”  She arranged the purse handle so it lay neatly pointing toward Ms. Burge’s big desk and then said, “I think I could have a position on Monday or Tuesday if I make some calls. We did the closing on the house last week and I took possession yesterday.”

Ms. Burge pushed her leather chair back with some effort, and stood.  The top of her desk came to waistband height.  She moved around the huge block of cherrywood and extended her hand to Shirley, who also stood and looped her purse handle over her left forearm.  

She shook the attorney’s hand.

“I think things will work out for you, Shirley,” said Ms. Burge.

“Thank you,” said Shirley.  “I’ll do my best.  I love my kids.”

“I know you do,” said Ms. Burge, walking to the office door and opening it.

Shirley went out through the main office suite, which had a vague geometric design and diamond-patterned wallpaper.  In the waiting area, she passed a man with a tan London Fog raincoat folded over his arm, whose legs jittered up and down as he sat.  He stood up when he saw Ms. Burge in the doorway of her office.  The man looked just awful.  His eyes protruded (thyroid problems, thought Shirley), his hair was badly cut and messy, and his whole body was trembling like that of an enraged chihuahua.  As Shirley passed him, the man’s eyes beamed a generalized hate toward her: resentment that she’d been in Ms. Burge’s office when he wanted to get in and see his lawyer.  

Good luck, pal, thought Shirley, as she left the building, and she couldn’t decide if she meant it. 

                                       >>>>><<<<<

Now, sitting on the matted living room carpet in front of the touch-tone telephone, Shirley looked at her watch, and saw that the minute hand had reached the 2.  Ten minutes after ten.  She pushed Redial.  The phone rang four times.  The receiver was picked up, bobbled so that Shirley expected it to fall noisily at the other end, then recovered and answered.  “Wilbur Manor,” said an older woman’s voice.

“Hello, this is Shirley Nilsson,” said Shirley.  She shifted the phone to her other ear.  “Can you connect me with Human Resources?”

“Mrs. Evans is the Personnel Manager,’ said the woman, and there were a lot of rubbing and thumping noises again.  Shirley realized that the receptionist must be balancing the phone on her shoulder as she did other tasks.  In the background, she heard a low grumbling voice, and the receptionist said, away from the mouthpiece, “No, not till ten-thirty.  Come back at ten-thirty.”  Then she spoke into the mouthpiece again.  “Did you want me to ring Personnel?”

“Yes, please,” said Shirley.

After four long rings, she got voicemail.  Shirley left a message requesting an interview slot.  She hung up, grabbed her car keys, and left the house to get toilet paper, Windex, and a sack of Taco Bell food for an early brunch.

When she got back, she settled the groceries and Taco Bell bag on a kitchen counter and went back to the living room.  She stooped down and picked up the phone, cradling the base against her thigh as she lifted the receiver.  A stuttering dial tone: she had a message.  A few taps on the old phone’s square number buttons, and the voicemail system gave her Mrs. Evans’ brief message.  Shirley redialed Wilbur Manor.

The phone rang for eleven high-pitched buzzes, and just as Shirley was about to hang up, the receiver at the front desk of the retirement village was grabbed and the receptionist said breathlessly, “Wilbur Manor!”

“Hello again,” said Shirley.  In the background she heard the sound of someone running in rubber-soled shoes which flapped loudly like a circus clown’s oversized feet.

“Stop her!” the receptionist called, off-receiver.  There were more running feet, and a voice squealed in protest.

“Sorry,” the receptionist said into Shirley’s ear.  “How can I help you?”

“I’m returning Mrs. Evans’ call,” said Shirley.

“Just one moment.”

Four long rings, and Shirley got Mrs. Evans’ voicemail again.  She left a new message.  Then Shirley took her Taco Bell chalupas out to the sunny front porch steps.

After the last bite, she wiped hot sauce off her fingers onto a yellow napkin decorated with a ringing mission bell.  The phone trilled from inside the house, and Shirley quickly opened the front door and dashed for it.  She bent to grab the phone’s receiver and inadvertently lifted the whole phone, so that the phone base dangled from the curly cord, floating over the floor like a hovering spaceship.  Shirley’s mouth tucked in at the corners as she frowned.  She would be so glad when she got the cordless phone unpacked and set up.

“Hello?” she said, using her pleasantest voice, grabbing the whirling phone base and holding it to her stomach.

“This is Mrs. Evans from the Personnel Office at Wilbur Manor,” said a woman who obviously had a bad head cold.  “Have I reached Shirley Nilsson?”

“Yes, I’m Shirley.”  Shirley looked around for a pen, but she’d forgotten to get one and now she couldn’t let go of the phone.

“Please excuse my scratchy voice,” said Mrs. Evans, whose throat lozenge clicked against her teeth as she spoke.  “I don’t have an assistant right now, so I needed to come in  and take care of things.”

“It’s hard to come to work when you’re sick,” said Shirley.  Was that a bad thing to say to a job interviewer?

“I just have to make it to three o’clock,” said Mrs. Evans.  “These honey-lemon lozenges are just the thing.  Barbara, the nurse on our North Wing, had some and they’ve gotten me through.”  She coughed distantly, then returned to the phone.  “So let’s see. . .  your Certified Aide status is current?  You’ve kept it renewed?”

“Yes,” said Shirley.  “I fill the renewal out and send in the fifty dollars every two years.  I don’t want to take that test again, I’ll tell you.”  Maybe she shouldn’t have said that either.

“I can imagine,” said Mrs. Evans in a slightly strangled voice.  “Excuse me, I need a sip of water.”  The phone went quiet for a moment, and then she was back.  “We have two shifts available.  One is a 9 to 2, Tuesday through Friday and every other Saturday afternoon, and the other –“

“That would be –“ Shirley said.  “I’m sorry to interrupt but that’s just what I need.  My children will get on the school bus at 8:05, and I can get to work by about ten to nine if the traffic’s not, you know, difficult.”  She thought.  “I imagine I can get the kids into some type of Saturday art classes or something at the library.”

“Could your husband watch them for you?” Mrs. Evans asked.  “But I know on weekends, the men like to get out and cut grass and so on.”

“We’re, ah, separated,” said Shirley, wondering why she’d avoided the word “divorced.”   Like divorcing Steven Nilsson had been a bad thing, for heaven’s sake.  He’d gambled, he’d left for days at a time, he’d taken Thad to see a movie where someone’s head exploded.  And he’d swung at Shirley one morning before work while she was in the shower, and she’d had to grab the towel bar so she didn’t fall and hit her head on the side of the tub.  

“I see,” said Mrs. Evans, her lozenge rattling against her teeth.  “Well, today is Monday.  Would Thursday or Friday be convenient for you?  We have some loaner uniforms you can use until we can order you the correct size.  Two sets of uniform pantsuits come with your benefits package.  If you need more, we ask you to supply them.”

“All right, that’s fine,” said Shirley, trying to understand.  It seemed that this must have been the job interview.  “What do I need to bring with me?”

“We need your driver’s license or state ID and your original certification, not a copy.  Do you have the original?”

“Yes,” Shirley said.  “In my safe deposit box.  I can get it tomorrow.”

“That should do it, then,” said Mrs. Evans, who paused to blow her nose gently in a genteel fashion.  “Excuse me, this horrible cold.  Okay then, we don’t need to do a drug screen unless there’s been a substance-abuse issue in the last three years.”

“Um,” Shirley said, wishing she could put the heavy old phone down on the floor and then hang up.  “Unfortunately a little over a year ago I was stopped on the way home from a restaurant and my reading, my Breathalyzer, was a little over, ah. . .”  She took a breath.  “I was charged with a DUI.  I did my community service and I just got my license back.  I joined AA and I’ve not had a drink since that, ah, incident.  I didn’t really – um, drinking wasn’t a problem at work, or, at home of course.  It was just. . .”  Shirley couldn’t finish.  

“All we’ll need then is for you to stop in at Pharma-Col,” said Mrs. Evans, briskly but not unkindly.  “Do you know where that is?”  She must have assumed Shirley didn’t because she went on immediately.  “It’s a two-story white building on Gray Street, near the old museum.  It’s next to an ob-gyn clinic, there on Gray Street.  You just stop in there either this afternoon or tomorrow if that’s better for you, and then tell them you’re a Wilbur Manor referral.  They’ll fax us over the result, and that should take care of it.  We’ll need you to come in a little early on Thursday – did you tell me that Thursday was good for you?”

“Um, yes, Thursday’s fine,” said Shirley.

"Okay, then, so you can get the kids to school and still be here at 8:30?" asked Mrs. Evans.  The clicking was gone;  the throat lozenge must have dissolved.

"Yes, their father can send them," said Shirley, and then felt as if she'd been caught in a lie somehow.  "That's no problem."

"All right, then," said Mrs. Evans, whose voice got scratchier with every word.  She coughed again.  "We'll get your forms filled out and so on, and Barbara or one of the other wing nurses can get you oriented.  There's a video they need you to watch on patient rights, and I can't remember what all they do now with the aides."

"That's good," said Shirley.  "I mean, that'll be fine."

She put the receiver back in the cradle and set the heavy old phone down on the carpeted floor.  She realized she had no idea what her salary would be but she'd work for two cents an hour if she could just get Cleo and Thad back home.

                                       >>>>><<<<<

The pay rate turned out to be $11.75, a dollar an hour more than the blood plasma center job.had paid back in the days before the kids were born.  Working at Care Plus BioMedical had meant hooking up drip bags to the outstretched arms of college students and other poor people, then demonstrating the hand squeezes needed to keep the circulation in the tapped arm flowing.

Those were Shirley's official duties, but she also helped the many who grew faint at the sight of their own vital fluid.  Though the donors reclined on leatherette sofas as they were hooked up, woozy people sometimes rolled off the furniture onto the carpeted floor.  On occasion, they got up suddenly, then crashed unconscious into the laps of other donors.  Shirley applied cold packs to bruised cheekbones and provided dixie cups of lemon-lime sports drink.

This new job at Wilbur Manor not only paid better than the old job at Care Plus, but it was easier too.  At Wilbur Manor there were enough staff people to do the work.  The nurses dispensed the medications, and the floor aides did the patient transfers, bathing, and feeding.  Shirley's main jobs were changing gauze dressings, gathering medical waste from the rooms of ostomy patients and helping with the cardiovascular fitness program.

On Shirley's first day at Wilbur Manor, Barbara, the nurse for the North Wing, had taken her around to see the different Wings.  

The South Wing was noisiest, with younger residents who had been permanently parked in assisted living because their families found it too hard to cope with their mental health issues, or alcoholism, or anti-social behaviors.  The East Wing was a stopping-off point for people released from the hospital but not ready to go home.  The parking lot on the east side of the building had extra parking spots for the shuttle vans which took residents to physical therapy and dialysis.  The West Wing was the most crowded because the residents were healthy and aware but had outlived their relatives, friends, and the cost-of-living increases in their pensions.  

The North Wing, where Shirley would be working, seemed emptier than the rest of the building.  Most of the North Wing residents never left their rooms, and many never left their beds.  Most relied on some form of medical equipment.  The breathing machines, heart monitors, and defibrillators gave Shirley the sense that she was on the set of a Star Trek series, perhaps “Deep Space Nine.”  The other Wings had residents, but the people on the North Wing were patients.  Everyone on the north side of Wilbur Manor had serious medical problems, or dementia, or they'd grown so old that they neither had nor wanted any visitors.

"Might as well start here," said Barbara, stopping at Room 330 and tugging gently at the sleeve of Shirley's sweater.  She peeked around the edge of the doorway, then turned back to Shirley.  "She's asleep, or resting anyway.  Her eyes are closed."  Barbara folded her arms.  "When I started here, the head nurse warned me about this one," she said in a barely audible whisper.  Shirley leaned in to hear.  "This is the hardest room to do -- Mrs. Grupetta.  The staff all calls her Madame Grumpetta, which I know is mean but you'll see why.  She's diabetic and her feet are a mess.  Three toes gone on her right foot and the doctor is watching some on her other one.  She's also got an abscess on the inside of her ankle, I think the left leg, and that bandage has to be kept clean.  Also don't tighten it up too much.  It can't rub her skin around that area -- it's breaking down bad.  She's also got edema and she's supposed to have her feet up on a hassock if she's in a chair, or elevated on a pillow on the bed, but she doesn't do it.  Her feet swell so it's hard to get her slippers on and off.  She swears at you in Italian and she'll kick you if you don't watch it.  When I used to do her room I’d do the foot check in the morning, and then I’d come back after lunch to look at the ankle bandage.”  Barbara sighed.  “I know it’s harder like that, but it gives her a chance to settle down if you don’t do everything at the same time.  Also, Madame’s sister’s extra critical and she’s on the owner like a hawk.   If Madame Grumpetta says boo to the owner about you, you’ll hear about it.”  Barbara uncrossed her arms long enough to wave a sweatered forearm toward the center of the building.  “You heard about the big Christmas tree they put up in the front lobby and the twinkly lights and everything they put up all over?  Well, when it gets holiday time you’ll see.  Madame’s family provided all that and they send staff out from the Grupetta Plant Nursery with ladders and all this to put it all up and take it all down –“  Barbara made a face “—so the family’s buddy-buddy with the owner and they like to pop in unexpected to check up and all this.  So no matter what she does, even if she kicks you or cusses you out or whatever, just go ahead and say you’ll come back later and be friendly, you know.  Just let it roll off your back.”  Barbara looked as though she was going to laugh, then she said quickly, “I hope you like accordion music.”

Had Barbara really just said “I hope you like accordion music?”  For a paranoid moment, she considered, whether Barbara could be one of Steve’s new girlfriends and possibly.  . .  No, that was ridiculous.  Even if some kind of a TV movie twist could have put Shirley into a job with her ex-husband’s new girlfriend, why would Steve have discussed Shirley’s love for the accordion?  He did not enjoy talking about Shirley’s strange ways.  He’d always been a slob and somehow presented Shirley’s perfectly normal orderly habits into a bizarre compulsive-obsessive disorder.  In her mind, Shirley could just hear Steve saying, “My ex was nuts.  She had accordion records, can you stand it?   Not just one or two, I mean she had dozens of them.  And of course they had to be organized.  The polka records over here and the klezmer records over there.  Mrs. Nutso had her own accordion, a gold lame accordion, but it sat in a locked case in the closet.  She’d just sit on the couch and listen to those records – oh, let’s don’t even talk about it.  Gah.  That’s why I divorced her.”

No, I divorced you, thought Shirley, and then she had a brief moment of disorientation.  She’d forgotten Barbara as the two of them stood outside the doorway of Room 330.  But why had accordion music, of all things, come up as a subject?

The nurse didn’t seem to notice Shirley’s confused frown.  Barbara leaned in through the doorway of Room 330.  She tapped on the door frame with her knuckles, then took a few steps into the room.  Shirley followed.

“Mrs. Grupetta?” Barbara said.  “I want to introduce you to our new staff member.”

Mrs. Grupetta, in her chair near the sunny window, didn’t look up.  “Shut up,” she said.  “Vattene via.  Get out of my room.”

“This is Shirley Nilsson,” Barbara continued in a pleasant voice.  “She’s a new health aide here on the North Wing, so she may be working with you, perhaps doing the checks on your feet or changing your bandage.”

“If I had some poison,” said Mrs. Grupetta, “I would put it in your coffee.  Or your tea.  I don’t care what I put it in.”

“Shirley is a great person,” said Barbara, gesturing to Shirley to move out into the hallway. Barbara smiled as she glided backwards out of the room.  She draped herself casually around the edge of the door frame.  “She’ll be glad to help you any time.  You just let us know what you need.”

“I need a pistol,” said Mrs. Grupetta.  “Or a big rifle.  Non importa.  I don’t care, I can shoot either one.”

“All right then,” said Barbara, undraping herself from the edge of the door and half-smiling.  “I know Norma came and checked your feet this morning and I think Ted will come in later to change your bandage.  We’ll see you later.”

“Haha, that’s what you think,” said Mrs. Grupetta.  She winked in an unnerving manner.  

Shirley and Barbara moved down the hall, away from Room 330.  The television in the North Wing lounge was blasting a commercial for the quicker picker upper.  When they were at the medical desk, well away from Mrs. Grupetta’s room, Barbara grinned at Shirley as she began to mark charts and file them.  “See why we call her Madame Grumpetta?”

“Does she have dementia or what?” said Shirley.  “Does she always threaten you?”

“Constantly,” said Barbara, laughing.  She put the last file into the hanging folder and shut the drawer.  “Since the day I started working here.”  She picked up the half-full coffeepot, sniffed the very dark liquid inside, and said, “Yikes, this must be warmed up from last night.  C’mon down the hall with me and I’ll show you where we keep the coffee and the filters.”

From down the hallway they’d just left, a burst of music drowned out the television in the North Lounge as well as the humming and beeping of the medical equipment in nearby rooms.  An accordion was playing “Under the Double Eagle,” with some very nice chord accompaniment.

“Thar she blows,” said Barbara.  “Madame Grumpetta gives us an accordion concert every morning from eleven-thirty to noon.”

“I like accordion music,” said Shirley, trying not to harbor paranoid fears.  There was no way that Barbara, the other staff, or Mrs. Grupetta already knew this about her interest in accordions.  It had to be a coincidence.  Or was she on one of those prank TV shows where they tried to make you feel like a complete fool?

“You do now,” said Barbara, who led Shirley into a little kitchenette where the mini refrigerator was crowded along the top with coffee supplies.  “Okay, what we do is if you drink coffee, put a dollar a week in this Folger’s can, and Ted gets everything discount for us at Aldi’s.  The powdered creamer’s up here, and there’s half-and-half in the fridge. Be sure to shot the spout on the half-and-half or it splashes and Norma’ll have a fit.”

Down the hall, Madame Grumpetta’s accordion finished the Sousa march with a flourish and went right into a slow, melancholy version of “Fascination.”

“Did you ever see that movie?” said Shirley, watching Barbara rinse the glass coffeepot in the square metal sink.

“What movie?” said Barbara, carefully turning the glass pot under the faucet so as not to chip the top edge.

“Love in the Afternoon,” said Shirley.  “Gary Cooper’s too old for Audrey Hepburn, but it’s a nice movie.   Very romantic.  Gypsy musicians follow them around different places and play ‘Fascination.’  That’s what that song is that Madame – that Mrs. Grupetta’s playing.”

From down the hall, Madame’s accordion lingered over the last few notes of the song, and inside her head Shirley sang along:  “Fascination. . .turned. . .to. . .love.”  The romantic spell was broken by Madame Grumpetta’s next selection, a brisk version of ‘12th Street Rag.”

Madame Grumpetta’s fingers had to be flying, and Shirley wondered what the chances of getting even a single lesson would be.  Zero, of course.  She couldn’t take accordion lessons from a cranky nursing home resident with a nasty kick.

“Okay, you set?” asked Barbara, who held the rinsed coffeepot and a pleated filter gathered around a fresh scoop of coffee.

“Yes,” said Shirley, trying not to pay attention to “12th St. Rag.”  On the way down the hall, Barbara began to explain what to do when residents needed special dietary trays sent to their rooms.

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That evening, after a dinner of Kraft macaroni and cheese with peas mixed into it, which Shirley ate from the saucepan to save washing a dish, she went down the hall to the small back bedroom of the Cape Cod and found the big tan suitcase sitting on the floor of the closet.  Shirley unlatched the lid, lifted it, then pulled back a stitched–in rayon cloth to reveal her mother’s gold lame ladies’ accordion.  A pleasantly musty smell rose as Shirley lifted the sparkly instrument out of the case and set it on the forest-green sculptured carpet.  

Her mother had taken excellent care of the accordion, and each of the raised keys had kept its coating of gold glitter.  The gold-sparkle casing wrapped itself around the mother-of-pearl panel where the air vent slots alternated with shiny gold bars.  On the treble side was a clear plastic bubble, and inside this, a golden lyre floated over a tiny open songbook, both pages filled with delicate arpeggios.  Under the lyre and songbook, a trailing golden ribbon proclaimed “Salenti.”

Shirley looked at the nubbly steel wheel that tightened the velveteen-lined wrist strap, the side snaps which kept the bellows straps out of the way, and the three plastic switches embedded with gold dust and gold embossed letters: Bassoon, Master, Clarinet.  

Shirley sat down, lifted the accordion into her lap, and settled against the side of the bed.  Without unsnapping the bellows or putting on the shoulder straps.  Shirley held the instrument in playing position against her chest, and her left hand found the C-Major bass button with its dimpled top.  Some models, she knew, had a rhinestone as a marker but the Salenti ladies’ model already had gold lame bass buttons lined up in six glittering rows.  Even a modest rhinestone would have been over the top.  Shirley slid her left hand under the wrist strap; and adjusted the strap wheel until her arm was cradled perfectly between the strap’s soft lining and the cool plastic of the instrument.  She rested her thumb on the air button, and laid the side of her head gently over the bellows folds at the top of the accordion.  After a few moments she lifted her head, sat back, and replaced the instrument, bellows straps still fastened, into the velveteen-lined suitcase, carefully arranging the shoulder straps so they wouldn’t snag the piano keys, and then dropped the rayon cover over the Salenti and closed the lid.

She looked at her watch.  8:30, the kids’ bedtime. . .theoretically.  She went down to the living room, sat cross-legged on the carpet and picked up the receiver on the old touch-tone phone.  She hoped Thad might answer, but her stomach tightened as she heard Steve’s voice say, “Hello?”

“Hi,” she said.  Silence.  “I’d like to say good night to the kids.”

“In bed,” Steve said, though, in the background, the sounds of the television and giggling were clear.

“Just Thad for a minute,” Shirley said.  There was a thud and she thought Steve might have hung up, but then she picked up the strains of the theme music for “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

The phone was picked up.  “H’lo?” said Thad in a high voice, and Shirley was just going to ask if he had a sore throat when she realized she was talking to Cleo.

“Hi honey, it’s Mommy,” said Shirley.

“I know,” said Cleo, giggling.  “Thad said it was Count Chocula but I knew it was you.”

“Count Chocula,” said Shirley.  “That’s funny.”

Cleo stopped giggling.

“Well, I just called to say good night.  You’re going to bed soon, right?”

“As soon as this show is over,” said Cleo.

That means midnight, thought Shirley, and sighed.  “Okay, then.  I’ll see you on Saturday.  Sweet dreams.  And brush your teeth, okay?”

“I will,” said Cleo, and there was a thud as she let the phone fall and went back to the television.

                                                     

                              >>>>><<<<<

Wilbur Manor offered balloon volleyball on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  By the end of her first week there, Shirley had already come to dread her duties as referee.  At 10:15 a.m. she had to put on a black-and-white striped shirt and go to the front desk, where the receptionist flipped a switch on the microphone.   The sound system always squealed.  This inevitably caused residents and employees to shoot nasty looks toward Shirley, who wasn’t touching anything or even standing near the microphone yet.  She would reluctantly approach the mic on its desk stand and talk breathily, her lips too close to the foam mic cover, as she read from a worn laminated sheet:

“Good Morning!  Let’s get our bodies moving and our heart rates up by playing balloon volleyball!  Come be part of the fun in Rec Area 2, the green recreation room next to the main dining room, at 10:30.  Join the happy, healthy teams at Wilbur Manor and we’ll find a place for you.  Walkers and wheelchairs are very welcome, of course.  Last time the Red Team beat the Blue Team by just two points.  So come on out this morning and let’s see if the Blues can pull off an upset!”

No one at Wilbur Manor ever even looked at Shirley or seemed to notice her announcement, but when she got to Rec Area 2 at 10:28, there were always a few players, just enough to put two or three people on each side of the low-slung net.  For instance, Shirley could count on Donald, who lived in one of the spousal units with his wife Harriet.  Harriet’s health was poor and she slept 22 hours out of every 24.  Donald loved to get out of their unit.  If the scheduled activity had been scattering fall leaves over the Wilbur Manor lawns and then raking them up again, Donald would have reported ten minutes before the start time, holding his own rake.

Another balloon volleyball regular was Ruthie, who was deaf and loved a group activity she could do without communication problems.  Ruthie also had severe arthritis which kept her from lifting her arms and shoulders high enough to really interact with the balloon, but she always ran eagerly toward it as it drifted toward the floor.  If anyone from her own team, or even anyone on the other team, managed to make any contact with the balloon at all, Ruthie always applauded and made the “OK” sign, smiling, her eyes sparkling.

Nobody at Wilbur Manor, on Red Team or Blue, liked to have Doris, a patient with advanced Alzheimer’s, play balloon volleyball.  Shirley could never think of a way to prevent Doris from participating.  At the start of the game, Doris obeyed the basic rules fairly well, but as each game approached its lukewarm climax, Doris would begin to switch from the Red Team to the Blue Team and back again.  Since Shirley’s scorekeeping was very casual, it wasn’t a real problem when Doris ran around the end pole to swat the balloon over the net, then dash back to volley her own serve.  But sometimes Doris, excited, would grab the balloon and run back to her assisted-living unit with it.  If Shirley or any of the residents or staff tried to convince Doris to return the balloon, she would begin to shout “Ouch! Stop it!  You’re hurting me!” even if no one was within three feet of her.  Wilbur Manor’s owner had overheard one of these outbursts while giving a prospective family a tour, and after that, Doris was allowed to keep the balloon whenever she wanted it.  Shirley had taken to inflating three or four extra balloons which she kept in the rec office, but in the time it took to unlock the office door and grab a replacement, members of the already-sparse crowd would have wandered off to see if there was going to be vanilla pudding on the lunch menu and the game would have to be called.

Shirley, relieved to have balloon volleyball over for the day, would wind the net around the left pole, set into a plastic bucket of sand like a strange potted plant, and then with her foot, she’d push the pole bucket next to the other pole.  Then, steering around fallen balloons and residents in wheelchairs, Shirley would maneuver the two poles in their sand buckets together into the back corner of Rec Area 2.

                                           >>>>><<<<<

At eleven o’clock she was needed in the North Wing where she changed dressings for residents in Rooms 321 to 333, the Medically-Fragile Unit.  She had to visit Mrs. Grupetta in Room 330 first, though it was inconvenient, because Mrs. Grupetta began her morning accordion recital promptly at 11:30 and before the musician could begin, she needed her feet checked and her ankle bandage changed.

Shirley had tried to do the check before balloon volleyball but the old woman had resisted so strongly that when Ted, the South Wing nurse, had stopped by and stuck his head in the doorway, Shirley had just stood, frozen, looking at him.  Silently, Ted came into the room, did the foot check very efficiently as Mrs. Grupetta pretended to nap, her head turned away on the pillow.  He frowned at the ankle bandage.  “This is seeping a little,” he said.  “I’d have to come back after meds. . .”

“I can do it,” Shirley said quickly.  “I’ll stop in right after balloon volleyball.”

Now there was no more delaying.  She wished she’d just let Ted do it, even if he got aggravated with her, but she didn’t know Ted well enough to ask for more help.  For all she knew, maybe he’d already said something to Barbara, the North Wing nurse.  That ankle bandage had to be changed.  She marched resolutely to Room 330, then stood in the hallway looking through the open door.

Mrs. Grupetta’s room was designed as a double occupancy unit, but the second hospital bed was covered with a crocheted throw and it served as storage for a stack of Women’s Day magazines, a long thin box of Italian pizzelle cookies, and a large floral lump.  Shirley needed a moment to determine that the lump was formed by a cotton nightgown decorated with lilacs, draped over a rectangular object, that object surely being a 120-bass piano accordion.

Looking around the room, she saw a permanent display along the marble windowsill:  a pine cone Christmas tree with frosted tips, a sack-laden Santa figure painted on a piece of twisty tree root, and a ceramic candy dish made to resemble an evergreen wreath being tied with a broad red satin ribbon by two industrious brown bunnies.

Before she knocked on the door frame, she peeked inside.  Mrs. Grupetta was lying in bed reading a newspaper called La Gazzetta Italiana.  The old woman’s head was elevated but her feet were defiantly stretched flat out, encased in woolly stretch slippers with white-bearded Santa Claus faces on top.

Shirley knocked on the metal door frame.  “Good morning, Mrs. Grupetta” she said to the back of the open newspaper.  There was no movement or reply.

Shirley slowly moved into the room.  “Should I go ahead and do your foot check while you read?”

She remembered now that Ted had already done the check, but she’d said it, so she’d do one too.  Shirley approached the bed, and since she’d gotten no answer, she reached down to gently cradle the underside of Mrs. Grupetta’s ankle, and then leaped out of the way as a red Santa slipper nearly caught her in the nose.  The old woman lowered her leg and continued to read her newspaper.

Shirley waited a moment, then firmly placed her hand over the menacing ankle, pinning Mrs. Grupetta’s right foot to the bed.  She kept a careful eye on the other foot as she peeled the right Santa slipper off.  Mrs. Grupetta had only her big and second toes, and the rest of her foot was marked with a neat zipper-like scar curving around the outer edge of the foot.   Shirley tilted her head to look at the sole of the foot, then inspected the skin at the top and the sides.  While the flesh wasn’t as pink and healthy looking as on the average foot, Shirley saw no signs of infection or swelling, and she awkwardly guided the woolly Santa slipper back over the surgically-altered foot.  When she came to the left foot, Shirley decided that she probably didn’t need to pin down the ankle first, and she slipped the other slipper off, ready to jump back to protect the bridge of her nose.

But Mrs. Grupetta remained silent behind La Gazzetta Italiana, and Shirley quickly inspected the left foot.  She couldn’t get a complete view, and knew that in the future, she’d need to go around the bed to do the left side.  She did the best visual check she could, slipped the stretchy foot cover back on, and stepped back from the bed.  

“Everything looks fine,” said Shirley, eyeing the gauze bandage on the inside of Mrs. Grupetta’s right ankle.  “It’s nearly eleven-thirty --”  At these words, there was a slight rattling of the open newspaper.  “—so I’ll come back to check your bandage after lunch.”

She shot out of Room 330 and down the hallway to the Medical Station.  She washed her hands with liquid antibacterial soap, then took a clean cup from the top shelf and poured herself a cup of too-dark coffee.  From a distance, she could hear the accordionist playing “The Laughing Polka” with speed and precision.

                                        >>>>><<<<<

“Keep coming back!  It works if you work it!”  The group applauded, and the circle broke up.

Shirley finished the last of the over-sweet hazelnut coffee in the bottom of her foam cup and dropped the cup into the plastic-lined wastebasket.  She circled the room, gathering laminated sheets with the 12 Steps on one side and the 12 Traditions on the other.  She brought the sheets to the cardboard potato-chip carton with “Fountain Square” written on the side, tapped the edges of the sheets even and tucked them into the box, where the glint of sobriety chips winked up from the bottom.  She looked around but nobody she really felt friendly with had come to the Thursday night meeting.  As she slipped her jacket on over her work uniform, she saw someone waving goodbye to her from across the room.  He was an older man, his hair combed very neatly, a brown sweater following the slopes of his shoulders.  He was emptying coffee grounds from the machine and had paused to smile and wave.  What was his name?  Shirley’s mind raced as she raised her own hand in a return wave.  An Italian name – Salenti?  Sonelli?  She couldn’t remember.

“Bye!” she called out, and fled.  

When she got home, a little jittery from the coffee she’d had at the meeting on top of the coffee she’d drunk at work, she went down the hall and then came back lugging the big tan accordion case.  She carried it into the living room and set it on the carpet in front of the love seat, opened the latches, and raised the lid.  Lifting out the glittering gold accordion, she settled it on her lap.  She sorted out the shoulder straps, sliding on first the longer strap, then the shorter one.  She unsnapped the left bellows strap and carefully attached it to the side snap to keep it away from the moving bellows, then did the same on the right side.  Sliding her left wrist under the perfectly-sized, velvet-lined bass strap, she thumbed the air button and gently began to move her left hand outward, separating each fold of the bellows one by one, almost silently, with a faint “oof” noise as the air was pulled in.  Putting her ring finger on the C button’s rhinestone top, she practiced bouncing from C to F to G, and the familiar motions started to come back to her.  Heartened, Shirley got a polka rhythm going.  She tried a little bit of “Just Because” but quickly lost her place in the melody.  

“You think too much,” she could hear her mother saying.  “Don’t think, just play.”

But what if you were a thinker?  What were you supposed to do?  Shirley had been a terrible touch typist in high school.  She thought about the letters and the words and the sentences, not willing to make herself a hollow reed for a boss’s business correspondence.  Or maybe it wasn’t the thinking that slowed Shirley down; maybe she just didn’t have the right kind of body or nervous system.  A person needed fast hands like Jo Ann Castle’s to give a polka or a dance number like “Bumble Boogie” the right feel, and Shirley’s hands just weren’t quick.  

Another of Shirley’s faults, she thought, was that she liked to change things around:  mess with the rhythm, add or take away a 7th or a 9th, go down an octave, play the melody on the bass side and use the piano keys for the accompaniment.  To be fast, the player couldn’t change things around.  Shirley refastened the bellows straps and slipped the shoulder straps off.  You had to be willing to stick with the same arrangement each time, and she wasn’t good at that.  Shirley put the shiny gold Salenti into its soft-lined suitcase and closed the lid over it.

                                        -- story continues in Part 2 -->