Viola Avenue Page 7

  “Did Daddy do that?”

  Delia sighed and nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “I was trying to clean him up after supper and he lost his temper,” she said. “I don’t think he meant to hit me, he just wanted me to stop what I was doing so he could go watch TV.”

  “It doesn’t matter why this happened,” Claire said. “This was the line that we said if he ever crossed, he would have to go into a home.”

  “I know,” Delia said, and broke down into tears.

  Claire rubbed her back and took several deep breaths.

  “I’ll call Doc Machalvie tomorrow,” Claire said.

  Delia nodded as she hiccupped and wiped her eyes.

  “He asked me later what happened to my face, and when I told him he did it he said I was lying. He said I was trying to drive him crazy.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Claire said. “I’m so sorry. We have to do something before it gets even worse, don’t you agree?”

  Delia nodded and sniffed.

  “I feel so bad for him,” Delia said. “He won’t understand why we’re doing it. He’ll be so hurt.”

  “We still have to do it,” Claire said. “It’s not safe for him or for us.”

  “I know,” Delia said. “It’s just going to be so hard to do.”

  “We’ll get Scott and Curtis to help,” Claire said. “He still trusts them.”

  “He used to trust us,” Delia said.

  Claire was in bed, watching the moonlight filtered through the trees as it reflected on her ceiling. With every breeze the light danced. She thought about retrieving her tablet from her handbag to make a list, but she was afraid it would wake her father, who would think she was an intruder. Instead she made a mental list.

  #1 Call Doc Machalvie about Dad.

  #2 Call Reverend Ben for an emergency session, maybe take mother.

  #3 Call Uncle Curtis and Scott – ask them to help.

  #4 Check out nursing home options.

  #5 Make a withdrawal to pay for everything.

  A good nursing home would be expensive, and they couldn’t know how long her father would live. It could be ten more years, twenty more years. Her parents had this house and owned the Rose and Thorn, but there was no savings account or retirement account, just her father’s small pension and both their social security payments. It was barely enough to live on, let alone pay the medical expenses Medicare didn’t cover.

  She had to make more money somehow.

  If this Eldridge thing didn’t come through, she would have to do something else, but what? What was she qualified for, other than hair and makeup? Opening her own salon would just take more money, and she didn’t have time to build up a clientele. She could rent a station at a salon and probably make money faster that way. She wouldn’t like it, not being in control of her own business, but she had to do something. Tomorrow she would run the numbers both ways and see what she came up with.

  Claire was determined that her mother not have to sell their house to cover her father’s medical expenses, but if Claire used all her savings to do it, what would she do when she was too old to work? She didn’t have a child to help her out, and Lord knows Ed Harrison was a great man but he was as poor as a church mouse.

  The thing she must not do, although it would solve her money problems, was to go back to work for Sloan. Even now, after their acrimonious split, she knew Sloan would take her back in a heartbeat, at twice what she was paid before.

  “I can’t,” Claire whispered to the night. “Can I?”

  Where her parents were concerned, Claire was determined she would do whatever it took to take care of them. She just hoped it didn’t come to that.

  Hannah was lying next to her husband, who had come to bed unusually early after an evening of being solicitous to her needs and helpful with their son. The nicer he had been the madder she got. Finally, when he had cocked an eyebrow at her as he got under the covers she had rolled her eyes, huffed, and turned away. Now he was sleeping like a baby and she was wide awake.

  Nothing he could say would appease her, or make her worry less. She asked herself, did she really trust Sam? Unfortunately, the answer was no. Her husband was good to her and Sammy, as much as he could be considering his PTSD issues, and she truly believed he was a good, honorable man, but there was a core to him that was unreachable, unknowable, and therefore, ultimately untrustworthy. He sometimes took off when stress got the best of him, and although so far he’d always come back, Hannah always wondered if the next time he wouldn’t.

  If she couldn’t trust him, what then?

  She tried to imagine a conversation where Sam told her he was leaving her and Sammy to be with Linda, but she couldn’t. Sam didn’t like or respect Linda. That woman had betrayed him when he needed her most. You couldn’t exactly say Sam held a grudge so much as he never ever forgot, or trusted again where trust had once been betrayed.

  He would be polite to Linda, and gladly accept her help with the grant proposal and subsequent application process, but he would never give her the satisfaction of being romantic with her, not that he was ever romantic with anyone. What Sam was with Hannah was devoted and willing. Heaven knows that man was always, always willing. Hannah could almost imagine him hate-shagging Linda, but even that was a stretch. That would only encourage her, and give her something with which to hurt Hannah. Hannah couldn’t imagine Sam giving Linda that kind of ammunition.

  Hannah had worried more than she let on about Sam and his latest protégé, a young woman with multiple amputations in whom he had taken a special interest. She could more readily imagine him getting too close to someone like that in the name of helping her, and then going too far due to his confounded willingness. He crossed emotional boundaries with his vets all the time; it was unavoidable when he had to get close enough to reach them inside where they were hurt, to gain their trust. He was always lending them his strength until they developed their own; it was something he could do, and do well. He, then, was always able to let go when it was time, even if they sometimes clung to him a little longer.

  Hannah sometimes envied how close Sam’s vets got to him. They shared something she could never share.

  “Hey,” he said, from behind her. “Quit thinking so hard; I’m trying to sleep.”

  She turned over toward him.

  She loved that handsome face, and the good heart that shone through his eyes.

  “I know you’re not sleeping with Linda,” she said. “I know you will never have an affair with that woman.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “But,” Hannah said.

  He groaned.

  “There’s something bothering me, something I can’t put my finger on, and it started when Linda called,” Hannah said. “She’s going to try to hurt me, hurt us. I don’t know how or with what, but that woman gives me a horrible feeling, and I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “But whatever it is, I won’t let her do it.”

  “I don’t think it’s even about you,” Hannah said. “It’s between me and her.”

  “Then my money’s on you,” he said. “My wife is a badass.”

  “Damn straight,” Hannah said.

  “Do you feel any better?” he asked.

  “Almost,” she said. “I’m just so tense.”

  “I’ve got just the thing for that,” he said.

  “I know you do, sweetie,” Hannah said, as she moved closer. “I know you do.”

  Chapter Five

  The HR director from Eldridge College called Claire early the next morning. She had been sound asleep, and realized as she looked at her phone that her mother must have allowed her to sleep in. Her dog was pressed against the small of her back and both cats, big and small, were curled up against her legs, snoozing.

  She was thinking about her need to call Doc Machalvie as she answered the phone, so the job at Eldridge was way down on the list of things she was concerned about.

  “Miss Fitz
patrick,” Doreen said. “I have good news for you.”

  The college was willing to go for a one-year contract, at a pay that was much more reasonable, with the addition of an option for a second year.

  “I accept,” Claire said. “What do I do now?”

  They made an appointment for eleven, and Claire got out of bed. She had expected to feel elation, or relief, or at the very least, satisfaction.

  She felt nothing.

  One of the things Claire had noticed about her antidepressant was that it tended to smooth out her emotions. Her highs were no longer so manic, and her lows were no longer so bottomless, and small things that used to bother her now just didn’t seem so important. She still had an active inner critical voice, but it was somewhat muffled by a blanket of reasonableness. It was a huge relief, but it was also a big change.

  Claire took a run, careful to avoid all the alleys that could possibly host trash bin-shopping bears, and then came home to shower. Her mother was in the kitchen, and Claire noted that she had carefully concealed her bruise with heavy makeup.

  “Did you call Doc Machalvie yet?” Delia asked her.

  Claire told her mother about the job at Eldridge and promised as soon as she was showered and changed they would go see the doctor. Claire called his office to see if they could be fit in, and was told to come in anytime, they would work them in.

  “That’s one great thing about a small town,” Claire said. “Anywhere else we would have to wait weeks, if not months.”

  Doc Machalvie had a courtly manner and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He guided them into his office, and bade them sit down across the desk from him. As soon as he asked about Ian, Delia began to cry, so Claire told him what had happened. He came around the desk to look at Delia’s face, and then sat on the edge of the desk.

  “It’s time to do something,” he said. “I hope that’s why you’re here.”

  “It is,” Claire said.

  He told them what the options were, from state-run facilities to private hospitals.

  “We want to put him wherever he will get the best care,” Claire said.

  “We can’t afford that,” Delia said.

  “You own your house, I take it,” Doc said.

  “They’re not taking the house,” Claire said. “I’m paying.”

  “He could live for many years,” Doc said. “You could spend all your life savings and they could still wind up losing the house.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’m going to give you the card for a social worker I know,” he said. “I will also call her to make an appointment for you.”

  “I’m working this afternoon,” Delia said. “It will have to be tomorrow. Does she work on Saturdays?”

  Doc called and made the appointment for them.

  “You need to take some time off,” Doc said after he disconnected the call. “This will be hard enough without also worrying about work.”

  “But we need the money,” Delia said.

  “Take the time, Mom,” Claire said. “Please.”

  “We’ll see,” she said.

  Claire knew from years of experience that “we’ll see” meant “no.”

  “You’re going to need all the strength you have, plus all of Claire’s,” Doc said. “No matter how nice the facility is, dementia units are tough places to see; you will be tempted to change your mind. You must not, Delia. It will be the hardest thing you ever have to do, but it is the right thing to do. Do you trust me?”

  Delia didn’t answer.

  Doc looked at Claire.

  “She will change her mind,” he said. “Can you stand up to your mother?”

  Claire couldn’t say she could. She found she couldn’t say anything.

  “Both of you need to toughen up,” he said. “Call me if you need me.”

  Delia stood to go, and Doc said, “Claire, would you give me and your mother a minute?”

  Claire went out to the waiting room and sat. She looked at her phone and saw she only had fifteen minutes to get to her appointment at Eldridge. She considered calling to change it to later. She considered canceling it altogether. Before she could decide, her mother came out. Her eyes were red and she was snuffling. Claire hugged her.

  “You need to get going,” Delia said.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” Claire said.

  “You need to see this through,” Delia said. “I’m going to work; I can cry just as easily while I roll out the dough as I can at home.”

  Claire dropped her mother off at the Fitzpatrick Bakery on her way to Eldridge. She parked her car on the street outside the gates, and then stopped at the college guard house to chit-chat briefly with the man inside; he was an old friend of her father.

  As she walked under the climbing-rose-covered iron archway which spelled out “Eldridge” in stately caps, it was as if she had entered a different world. The lush green lawns were meticulously manicured and every flower bed was perfectly symmetrical to its counterpart on the other side of the central drive.

  The trees even seemed more perfect on this side of the brick wall that surrounded the grounds. There were dark oaks shaded with deep red leaves, sugar maples sporting bright orange, and the golden leaves and black trunks of the Bradford Pears completed the perfect fall photograph. In this setting, with its rose-colored brick buildings and black wrought iron railings, Eldridge was a virtual movie set of a campus.

  Claire’s heels tip-tapped on the wood floors as she made her way to the Human Resources Department in the hundred-year-old main building. She was aware of every eye upon her as she walked through the open plan office setting to a conference room at the back. She smiled at everyone and waved at the people she knew from town.

  Once in the conference room, she was introduced to the Interim Chair of the Drama Department, a Mr. Maurice Jarvis. He was a tall, heavyset, balding man wearing a red bow tie, a three-piece suit, and large, tortoise shell-framed glasses. His deep voice was pure molasses with a Southern accent made to speak Tennessee Williams dialogue.

  With Mr. Jarvis was the provost, Elon Tamuro, a short, dark-haired man in a gray suit with a serious, frowny face and an officious air, who spoke with a posh New England ivy-league accent. The HR Director was Tammy Napier, a woman with big dark hair and long, elaborately decorated nails, who spoke in the Northern West Virginia accent that was neither strictly Southern nor Northern, but a hybrid of both sides of the Mason-Dixon line.

  The welcome interview was short, and the provost did not stay long. Tammy walked Claire through all the paperwork, and then took her down to the basement to have her staff ID made. Claire wasn’t happy with the picture, thought she looked tense and worried (which she was), but decided not to ask for a retake lest she seem shallow and entitled.

  Walking briskly in very high heels, Tammy took her out the back door of the main building, where sidewalks crisscrossed the central lawn of the college.

  Attractive groups of young people were sitting, walking around, or playing games, but most were looking at their phones. They were dressed to correspond to their social groups, and Claire was amused to see the same hippies, Goths, and preppies she remembered from high school. The newest addition to these classics were the barely dressed, hard-bodied, duck-lipped reality TV wannabees who had just or were in the process of holding up their phones to take their own pictures.

  They ended up at the last building on the river side of the campus.

  “Winslow Homer Hall houses The College of Fine Arts,” Tammy said. “That includes Art on the first floor, Music on the second floor, Drama on the third floor, and English and Journalism on the fourth floor. Dance classes and the rehearsal studios are in the basement, along with the studio theater.”

  “That’s a lot to stuff in one building,” Claire said.

  “Eldridge is primarily a liberal arts college,” Tammy said. “Math, Languages, Humanities, History, and Science take up most of the other buildings. We also have a sports complex for men’
s and women’s soccer and tennis. When the Buttercombe Center for Performing Arts is completed, Drama and Dance will move over there, the English Department will take over the third floor, and Music will take over the basement.”

  In the elevator, alone with Tammy, Claire remembered her assignment.

  “It’s very sad about Professor Richmond,” Claire said, and looked encouragingly at Tammy.

  “It’s probably a good idea not to talk about that with the students,” Tammy said, without meeting Claire’s eyes. “We want our campus to be a safe space for anyone suffering from a past trauma, and the mention of death might be a trigger for someone. If any of them are upset about it and they bring it up, tell them they should go to Student Health and see a counselor there.”

  “Did you know him well?” Claire asked.

  Tammy shook her head and smiled with her thin lips pressed together.

  “No, I did not,” she said, crisply enunciating every word.

  And she said nothing more until she left Claire at Professor Jarvis’s office.

  “Good luck,” she said before she walked away, and smiled as if she were laughing at Claire.

  Professor Jarvis showed her around the third floor, looked in the classrooms that were empty, and then asked if she’d like to see her classroom.

  “Until the Bijou gets renovated, I’m afraid you’re stuck in the basement with the studios.”

  Claire soon found out what that meant.

  The basement of Winslow Homer Hall consisted of a suite of art and musical practice studios, dance rehearsal rooms, a 264-seat theater, and men’s and women’s dressing rooms with shower facilities. At the end of the hall, tucked behind a brightly lit studio where pink-legging clad ballerinas stretched at barre, was a long, narrow room lined all the way around with mirrors surrounded by bare lightbulbs, and cracked laminate counter tops with metal folding chairs tucked underneath.

  “Home sweet home,” he said, with a flourish.