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It was on a Wednesday night, a couple of weeks ago. Melissa and I had had a brief meeting, a sidebar if you will, in preparation for the full board meeting the next day. I was escorting her out to her car, when suddenly her back stiffened in fright. A figure was stepping out of the shadows—a tattooed arm, a cordless drill—and speaking my name. Melissa cursed at the figure, who responded in language equally vulgar but far warmer in tone, and in a moment the situation dissolved, as such situations usually do, into hasty acknowledgements of recognition and breathless apologies.
The figure was Gary. It's not unusual to find Gary around the Tangled Bank at odd hours. He displays a certain—let's call it a proprietary tenderness for the physical structure of the place, and far be it from me to challenge his feelings of ownership, particularly when they manifest themselves in frequents acts of unbilled light maintenance.
On this evening, he had stopped by to fix a piece of molding, to which he referred as if I would undoubtedly know which piece of molding, and why it needed fixing. I did not disabuse him of this impression, which encouraged him to mention additional maintenance projects, projects which would require specific budget items, as he no longer had the spare time to devote to such matters, the demand for his art work having taken off.
Of course I understood. And I was happy, and I wanted him to know I was happy, that he chose to keep coming back to the center and keep things in fine shape, but however happy I was, there was no trace of complacency in my happiness, no expectation—
A car door swung shut. Headlights came on. The lights swung to and fro as Melissa backed out of her parking space. She called out to us her sorrow at having to leave so quickly, but her son was waiting. Gary called back his complete understanding. I simply waved.
Gary and I watched her drive off, insects sparkling in the torches of her headlights, a glimpse of the glistening river as her tires caught the dip in the gravel.
I turned back to Gary and reassured him that we on the board understood that we could not count on his continued in-kind donations of skilled labor, and that if we came in under budget in the building maintenance account, it was because of his continued generosity, and that we all understood how his gifts were as good as cash.
He did not respond immediately, and for a moment I had the unusual feeling that I was the one who had been talking too much. Sometimes it seems as if you are negotiating about one thing, when in fact an entirely different issue is in play. In such cases it's best to let the other party tell you what's going on. They always do.
Gary shuffled for a moment, the cordless drill swinging in his hand, a useless tool for the current task.
Eventually he set the drill down on a window sill. Then he turned to me and asked if I meant that the debt had been paid.
There was never a debt, I explained. Samantha was my granddaughter, and it had been my privilege to contribute to her support.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Betty, June 30, 2007
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I was at Van Buren Hill—a nice place, my first choice among all the places I'd been looking at, not disgusting or depressing, but not full of Republicans either. I was doing quick calculations in my head—multiply dollars per month by twelve to get dollars per year, then add years—how many?—to eighty-nine, when the case worker asked for proof of residency.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"Usually a utility bill," he said.
"Is it required?"
"Well there's a different fee structure for out-of-state residents." He looked at me and smiled. "We do get some funding from the state."
I smiled back. "Really. What's the difference?"
"Oh, at the level of care we're setting up for Arthur"—he used Dad's name as if he were talking about a kindergarten student—"the difference would be about five hundred a month. At the assisted living level—let's see, that would be about twelve-fifty. Two thousand for in-state, thirty-two-fifty for out-of-state."
I thought for a moment.
"All the utility bills are in my name," I said. "Except for his cell phone."
"Cell phone?" he said. "Do the bills have the street address?"
"I think so," I said, but in fact I knew so. I had bought Dad a cell phone and a national plan five years ago. The bills had his name on them, but they came to my house, and I paid them.
"That'll do," said the case worker.
And so I needed Dad to be discreet. For a month or so. Till he settled in.
"Try not to talk about Terre Haute." I said. "Or the house."
"What else will I talk about?" he said.
"You don't have to lie," I told him. "Just... push that stuff back into the past. Act as if you've been living here for a few years."
After all, he has spent at least five or six weeks a year visiting me. For a good decade or so. It's not as if he's unfamiliar with my house, my neighborhood, and therefore, ipso facto, his new official state of residency. And people know him around here—in a way. The clerk at the bakery would see him every day for a week, she even got to know his breakfast order, coffee and a scone, no butter, and she would recognize him when he returned, two months, three months, four months later, and joke with him about having his breakfast somewhere else. He enjoyed that.
Of course, there's a lot of turnover at that bakery. There was only the one clerk who remembered him, and she's gone now.
Ten years he's been coming, or, actually, ten years I've been going to get him. Every school vacation and twice each summer.
He moved into Van Buren Hill today. One day before the end of the month—no extra charge, said the case worker. They call them case workers but they're really sales agents. This guy was okay, though.
The movers were carrying the flattened cardboard boxes out of the new apartment and I was taking care of the last few bits of paperwork when I noticed that Dad wasn't around.
"Don't worry," said the case worker. "He's probably meeting his neighbors. Everyone's very friendly here."
We found him in a little alcove near the elevator, sitting on a bench, talking with two women about ten years younger than himself.
"That's wonderful," he was saying as the case worker and I approached. "We don't have anything like that in Terre Haute—"
"There you are!" I said, maybe too loudly.
"You must be his daughter!" said one of the women. She stood and shook my hand. "My name's Dorothy," she said, "and this is my friend Louise. We've just invited Arthur to join us on an expedition."
I was at Van Buren Hill—a nice place, my first choice among all the places I'd been looking at, not disgusting or depressing, but not full of Republicans either. I was doing quick calculations in my head—multiply dollars per month by twelve to get dollars per year, then add years—how many?—to eighty-nine, when the case worker asked for proof of residency.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"Usually a utility bill," he said.
"Is it required?"
"Well there's a different fee structure for out-of-state residents." He looked at me and smiled. "We do get some funding from the state."
I smiled back. "Really. What's the difference?"
"Oh, at the level of care we're setting up for Arthur"—he used Dad's name as if he were talking about a kindergarten student—"the difference would be about five hundred a month. At the assisted living level—let's see, that would be about twelve-fifty. Two thousand for in-state, thirty-two-fifty for out-of-state."
I thought for a moment.
"All the utility bills are in my name," I said. "Except for his cell phone."
"Cell phone?" he said. "Do the bills have the street address?"
"I think so," I said, but in fact I knew so. I had bought Dad a cell phone and a national plan five years ago. The bills had his name on them, but they came to my house, and I paid them.
"That'll do," said the case worker.
And so I needed Dad to be discreet. For a month or so. Till he settled in.
"Try not to talk about Terre Haute." I said. "Or the house."
"What else will I talk about?" he said.
"You don't have to lie," I told him. "Just... push that stuff back into the past. Act as if you've been living here for a few years."
After all, he has spent at least five or six weeks a year visiting me. For a good decade or so. It's not as if he's unfamiliar with my house, my neighborhood, and therefore, ipso facto, his new official state of residency. And people know him around here—in a way. The clerk at the bakery would see him every day for a week, she even got to know his breakfast order, coffee and a scone, no butter, and she would recognize him when he returned, two months, three months, four months later, and joke with him about having his breakfast somewhere else. He enjoyed that.
Of course, there's a lot of turnover at that bakery. There was only the one clerk who remembered him, and she's gone now.
Ten years he's been coming, or, actually, ten years I've been going to get him. Every school vacation and twice each summer.
He moved into Van Buren Hill today. One day before the end of the month—no extra charge, said the case worker. They call them case workers but they're really sales agents. This guy was okay, though.
The movers were carrying the flattened cardboard boxes out of the new apartment and I was taking care of the last few bits of paperwork when I noticed that Dad wasn't around.
"Don't worry," said the case worker. "He's probably meeting his neighbors. Everyone's very friendly here."
We found him in a little alcove near the elevator, sitting on a bench, talking with two women about ten years younger than himself.
"That's wonderful," he was saying as the case worker and I approached. "We don't have anything like that in Terre Haute—"
"There you are!" I said, maybe too loudly.
"You must be his daughter!" said one of the women. She stood and shook my hand. "My name's Dorothy," she said, "and this is my friend Louise. We've just invited Arthur to join us on an expedition."
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