Recessional: A Novel (50 page)

The players stopped to acknowledge his presence, and Ella suggested: “Take that seat over there and watch our girl demonstrate her new skills.” He accepted the invitation and sat close to the midcourt steel post to which the net was attached, and for a quarter of an hour he watched as Betsy hit shot after shot that Bedford launched her way. He noticed that as she became more skilled at the task of maintaining her stability, she gained more freedom of movement. At the ten-minute mark she became almost a free spirit on the court, making recoveries Andy had earlier thought impossible.

She wore an imported Teddy Tingling–like white tennis dress favored by chic players, and as Andy studied the outfit and how perfectly it suited her, he was suddenly struck by how beautiful she was, and—an inner voice said—how sexy. He had never before allowed himself to think of her in those terms.

At this point, Ella stopped the play on the court and proposed: “Dr. Zorn, why don’t you take my racket and play?” He was about to
decline, since he had no tennis shoes, when Betsy said urgently: “Doctor, please! We need you,” so reluctantly he took over as her partner.

The next moments were dreamlike. Never a superior tennis player, Andy at least knew how to handle a racket and defend himself at the net, and with Betsy standing firmly at his right side, he entered the game vigorously, moving about to field balls that Betsy could not reach and chasing to recover balls they both had missed. But as the exchanges continued, Betsy grew bolder, and when Yancey sent a ball well to her left, to her backhand, Andy gallantly moved slightly to his right to play it but was halted by a peremptory cry from Betsy: “Mine!” and she thrust her racket boldly across her body to take a swinging smash at the ball. She maneuvered so cleverly, throwing additional weight on the cane, that she completed the shot almost brilliantly.

Grinning at Andy as she moved her cane back to its position for maximum stability, she said impishly: “I always had a strong backhand,” and the game proceeded. But as she became more confident, she continued to stretch out to her left to deliver backhand shots, and she became adept at moving her body weight about in an almost free and easy manner.

She was so exhilarated by her performance that after two backhand shots she called to Yancey: “Feed me a couple straight on,” and when he did she amazed everyone, including perhaps herself, by raising the cane off the court, standing only on her two flat-soled shoes, and punching the balls back across the net without any teetering of her body.

“They’re behaving like real feet!” she cried joyously as she took a hard swipe at the ball, but the effort proved too demanding. At the completion of her vigorous swing she had moved so much that her new legs could not ensure her stability and she began to fall.

“Catch her!” Yancey shouted as he ran forward. Ella, too, leaped from her chair to keep Betsy from falling to the hard surface, but their help was not required because Andy lunged forward, caught her about her waist and pulled her to him. For a breathless moment they stood clasped together. This time she did not kiss him, but her left arm, still holding the cane, pressed him closer to her as she whispered: “I wasn’t afraid. I knew you’d be there to help if I fell toward your side.”

Andy was so enchanted by all that had happened during the last
half hour that he cried impulsively: “This day has been too wonderful. Let’s prolong it with lunch together in my office!” As the four happily walked back to Gateways, Yancey engineered it so that Betsy remained with his wife while he fell behind with Andy, and when they were sufficiently separated that Betsy could not hear them, Yancey said: “You could see for yourself, Andy, that Betsy’s made extraordinary progress. I’m sure she’s ready to test her recovery in the real world. And I’m going to recommend that she reenters it—unless an unforeseen reason develops for her to stay with us a bit longer.”

Andy was stunned—the pain of her leaving the Palms, and him, would be insupportable. Everything had changed during the last hour at the tennis court. Medically, he supported Yancey’s reasoning: “It’s time for her to return to her real life,” but emotionally he could not let her go.

With difficulty he managed to regain his composure before joining the women in his office. Telephoning Nora, he asked her to arrange a lunch party for the four of them plus herself, Krenek and Miss Foxworth. When all were gathered at the table Andy started the informal discussion: “Our Betsy has just about completed her course of rehabilitation here at the Palms, and we ought to give some attention to what she should do next.” After a pause, during which everyone looked at Betsy, Miss Foxworth said: “When you go, Betsy, it will leave a terribly big hole. We’ve all grown to love you so much. But I suppose you really must return to Chattanooga and resume your real life.”

Yancey added: “Betsy, you’ve graduated rehab with honors,” and his wife agreed: “An admirable student. You need to keep up a scaled-down version of your exercise program, but Yancey and I know a couple of good physical therapists you could work with in Chattanooga.”

Ken Krenek said: “You’ve acquired a lot of things during your stay with us, Betsy, but if you send us a Chattanooga trucker, we’ll pack for you,” and Nora cautioned: “When you reach home, don’t go into isolation again. Get out into the community and make yourself a part of it.” Andy added: “Keep in touch with us. Let us know how you’re doing, because we don’t want to lose contact with somebody we all love.”

At last Betsy spoke to these good people who were planning her life for her. In a very low voice, not much more than a whisper, she said: “But I’m not going back to Chattanooga.”

Everyone was astounded by this declaration, made with such firm resolve, but it was Miss Foxworth who responded first: “Betsy, your recovery here has been remarkable. We’ve all been cheering. But you’re not ready to strike out completely on your own. You must stay close to your family and friends.”

“That’s what I’m doing. I’m staying here,” she said in the same low, determined voice.

Somewhat uncertainly Miss Foxworth said: “Well, we do have the room to accommodate you,” and Mr. Krenek said immediately: “Or we might find you quarters that would fit your needs better.”

When everyone had contributed thoughts on how Betsy should spend the remainder of her life, she sat quietly, with downcast eyes, her hands clasped about a Coke bottle, and said thoughtfully: “I found a home here. I found dear, trusted friends who saved my life, my sanity. And I found a pattern of living that made sense. I’ll be the youngest resident you have, far too young, but I want to live a life of service, the way Berta Umlauf does, or my dear friend Nora Varney, or my miracle man Bedford Yancey.” She paused and said tearfully: “I guess you’re stuck with me, Dr. Zorn.”

Of all those who listened to this explanation, only Nora could appreciate its full significance: Brave kid, she wants to stay right here and fight it out. She wants her man and no power on earth is going to get in her way. I wonder if Andy realizes the meaning of what she’s just said? And when she looked across the table at the doctor she thought of the street phrase her nephew Jaqmeel had often used: “Poor zombie, he don’t know from nothin’,” and she felt sorry for him, and for Betsy, too, and for the battles that lay ahead.

When the lunch ended, Andy was left alone in his office with the radiant afternoon sun flooding the room, and he sat once again at his desk trying to sort things out. Far more than Nora had concluded, he was aware of how things had changed since those dramatic moments on the tennis court when he had seen Betsy not as a patient but as a highly desirable woman. The image that persistently came before him was that of Ted Reichert, the young doctor in his clinic who had destroyed himself, his marriage, his job and even his welcome in Chicago by his improper relationships with his patients. Worst of all, Andy thought, he had ruined or at least seriously damaged the lives of those patients. And he knew how infinitely worse his case would sound in the headlines:
DOCTOR PREYS UPON RICH DOUBLE AMPUTEE LEFT IN HIS CHARGE
. And Betsy? She must be scared, confused.
She thinks she wants to stay at the Palms, but that’s crazy. She’s a quarter of the age of some patients. She’s got a whole wonderful life before her.

Abruptly he called Krenek, Foxworth and Nora back to his office, and when they were seated he said with considerable force: “I’m afraid Betsy’s plan to remain here with us is a daydream on her part and apt to get the Palms into all kinds of trouble. So I want you three to put an end to this idea. It’d be ridiculous for her to stay here at age twenty-three.”

“How do we convince her?” Krenek asked, and Zorn said: “You’ll be able to think of something.”

Miss Foxworth spoke first: “I’m of two minds. As the woman in charge of collecting the fees and keeping us solvent I want to see Miss Betsy remain right where she is, with her father in Chattanooga sending us those big checks. But woman to woman, I’d have to advise her to get out of the Palms with its horde of old people. She must return to her own group, with its marriageable young men.”

Bluntly Nora asked: “When you were her age did you ever take a job where there were no available men?” and Miss Foxworth said crisply: “Yes. In Washington—and the years passed. She should get out of here.”

When Zorn asked Nora what she thought, she said cryptically: “I believe Betsy has a strong will. I think she’ll insist on staying here, no matter what we say.”

“But I just told you that our decision now is for her to go—to get out of a place that isn’t suited for her.”

“But if she won’t go?” Nora asked, and he said lamely: “We’ll think of something.”

When they returned to their offices, leaving him alone, he continued sitting, deep in thought as he drummed his fingers for some moments on the desktop. He looked at the chair Betsy had occupied during the earlier meeting, and saw her once more in the charming tennis outfit and relived the moment he had reached out to prevent her from falling and embraced her. He felt a tremendous yearning for her, and he was shaken by the depth of his emotions. And then the image of Ted Reichert and the many lives he’d ruined came before him, and it was these conflicting images that kept him awake during most of that night.

O
fficials at the Palms might not have been so quick in uncovering the reasons for the unusual way in which Clarence Hasslebrook had rented quarters in Gateways and his curious behavior once he moved in had not the Duchess penetrated the mystery by her propensity for snooping. In fact, the arrival of a mystery man like Hasslebrook had whetted her appetite for the chase, and she used the same tactic as she had in discovering that Reverend Quade was an author. One morning the postman arrived earlier than usual, and the Duchess, from her vantage point in ground-level front, saw him wheel into the oval, park his postal van in the space reserved and hurry into the lobby, where he distributed the letters in the boxes and then stacked the half-dozen larger packages in the customary space outside the locked area.

As soon as he had gone the Duchess swept out of her apartment wearing a French-style lace peignoir over her nightgown, hurried to the stack of packages and rummaged through them, taking note of who was receiving what, and after finding little but the regular sort of thing arriving for the regular sort of recipient—L.L. Bean catalogs for the men, Neiman Marcus for their wives—she struck what she recognized as a gold mine. It was the first package ever received for newcomer Hasslebrook, and it was the kind that looked as though it
contained either a pair of oversized books or a collection of papers that should not be folded. Hefting it in her left hand, she decided it was neither, but what it might be she could not guess. She did, however, take careful note of who had mailed it: Life Is Sacred, Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. The name was familiar; she had heard about this organization before.

She became so tantalized by the question of why Life Is Sacred might be sending a package of this size to Hasslebrook that she was sorely tempted to sequester it before the staff arrived and sneak a glance inside to see the contents, but she decided that this was too risky and illegal to boot. But she did take the package into a corner of the room, bend way over to hide what she was doing and use her sharp fingernails to force a small opening in one corner. It was big enough to allow a glimpse of the contents and to permit her clever fingers to work one item free and out through the opening she had made. It was a pamphlet, attractively printed, with a cover that showed Jesus on the cross and the bold words
HE DIED THAT WE MIGHT LIVE
and the name of the issuing society: Life Is Sacred.

When she was back in her room, with the postal truck gone and the staff beginning to arrive, she sat by the window and studied her discovery. It was a well-written, handsomely illustrated religious tract defending human life against the enemies that threatened it: abortion, drugs, suicide and, especially, legal euthanasia. The position of the society was uncompromising; such actions were immoral, counter to the teaching of the Bible and illegal. Those who were members of the society were commanded to fight the good fight against the enemies, those who were not yet affiliated were warmly invited to join and to carry the battle into their own communities.

She noticed that Mr. Hasslebrook’s name appeared nowhere as an officer of the society, but the pamphlet did boast that they had more than two thousand members nationwide. It was an impressive document, and she stayed by her window between the hours of nine to ten wondering what she should do with it. She concluded rightly that if she revealed that she had a copy she might have to explain how she had acquired it, but she solved that problem quickly by burying it under some clothes at the bottom of a small suitcase in her bedroom. Then she wiped her hands as if they needed cleansing and strolled casually into the main office, where she asked Nurse Varney if she could have a few words with Dr. Zorn. When she sat with him, smiling with the innocence of a child, she said: “We’ve all been wondering
what this Hasslebrook character might be up to, and I think I’ve stumbled on the answer. In picking up my mail this morning I happened to notice among the boxes outside the door of the locked part of the post office a parcel addressed to him. I wasn’t snooping, the name just popped up at me, and I was interested in who might be sending him such an important-looking parcel.” She paused for effect, then said quietly: “A society in Boston. Life Is Sacred. I wondered why they would be interested in a nonentity like Hasslebrook.”

“Do you happen to know what sort of society they are?”

“Surely you’ve heard about their performance in the Montana case, the one where they were the force that kept that poor girl alive when her parents wanted to end her life?”

“Was that the agency? They got a lot of publicity in that one.”

“They’re very good at organizing publicity.”

“How do you know so much about them, Mrs. Elmore?”

“Many of us older people think of them as our protectors. Against being put to death before our time. Avaricious relatives wanting our money. Someone has to look after our rights.”

“Have you any relatives who are—avaricious?”

“Several in California. I wouldn’t leave them a nickel. I have my eye on missions to the Eskimos.”

“Well, thank you for your interesting news,” and he ushered her to the door, even though she had shown no sign of wanting to leave. She liked Zorn and appreciated an opportunity to talk with him on community matters, so as she left she said: “If I can be of any help on the food committee, let me know. My husband and I had a cordon bleu chef at our home in France and I remember a few things he taught me.”

When she was gone, Andy leaned back and studied the ceiling. It seemed that wherever he moved, whatever he did, he was catapulted into the middle of some medical problem that he would have been pleased to avoid. Now it sounded as if he would be called upon to defend the integrity of retirement centers, for he had no doubt that Hasslebrook, whoever he was, had been inserted into the Palms to spy upon operations in the health center. And he wondered whether he should have a discussion with the man right now, so that the battle lines in whatever struggle might ensue were understood. He was strongly inclined to react quickly and firmly, but first he would seek the guidance of Ken Krenek and Nora Varney, experienced hands who would be just as eager to protect the Palms as he was.

“Now, I don’t want anyone to panic or jump the gun, but the Duchess told me that our Clarence Hasslebrook looks to be an agent of the Life Is Sacred movement out of Boston. He received in the mail today a large packet of what she suspects was printed material from his agency. What do we know about his group? What should we do about having him in our midst?”

Krenek was eager to speak: “Very powerful. Very persuasive. They publish good materials and seem to be growing in strength.”

“What specifically might they do here at the Palms?”

“They raised merry hell with the nursing homes in Texas. And I must say, some of them deserved it, and they were complimented for having done a public service. In some of their other interventions? Well, I got the idea they were interested mainly in publicity for their various causes.”

“Which ones might apply to us? Why would he be here?”

“They’re fierce opponents of anything in care for the aged that smacks of terminating a human life.”

Andy interrupted: “I’ve read somewhere they’re masters at using the courts—”

“None better,” Krenek said, “I’ve studied a couple of their cases in the newspapers, and their method is to tie you up. Positively hog-tie you, so you have to play by their rules.”

“What would be your guess as to why he’s here?”

“Obviously he wants to check us out, but it could well be that he’s chosen us because we’re part of Taggart’s chain. Put him down as an industrial spy.”

Andy considered this and said: “You may be right. Now, what do we know about this particular fellow? Let’s look at everything. Even little bits. Nora?”

“The high school waitresses report he’s a bore. Sits there and never talks.”

“How old is he?”

“Mid-sixties?” Nora guessed.

“Ken, how was it exactly he came here?”

“I handled the case. Woman lawyer from his firm in Boston took care of arrangements. She wanted it for one of their staff who lost his wife, kids all married.”

“Kids?”

“Yes. Six, as I recall. His financial condition we didn’t look into,
since the law firm paid everything and the woman assured me he had small investments on the side. But I’m not so sure. We might want to bring in Chris Mallory. He took him shopping for a new suit, and his report of what happened is hilarious.”

“In what way?”

“Makes Hasslebrook a real dope. Highest he’d go for a sports coat, which he needed, was thirty-five dollars at Charley’s, that outlet in the Spanish quarter that specializes in factory seconds. So I judge he’s not loaded.”

“What to do?” Andy leaned back, looked over the heads of his assistants and for some moments contemplated this unwelcome development.

Krenek suddenly cried: “I think I have it! In that famous case in one of the western states, a representative of Life Is Sacred butted into a family problem. The parents were trying to exercise their brain-dead daughter’s wish expressed years before that she never be kept alive when meaningful life has vanished. And damned if he didn’t get a court order making him custodial guardian of the young woman, and he absolutely stopped the parents from doing what they had promised, to let the girl die.” He paused dramatically, then said: “I’m sure I remember that agent’s name as Hasslebrook. If he did it out west, he can do it in Florida. Get a court order and take all our options away from us.”

Nora said: “Florida courts aren’t going to put up with that nonsense. Too many old people come here expecting protection,” but Krenek said: “Trouble is, they might get the idea that Hasslebrook is protecting them. On paper his ideas look good, but they raise hell with private lives. Yes, now I remember. There was a two-hour television play on that western case. Pretty gruesome from our point of view.”

Andy, listening to this ominous news, concluded that Hasslebrook’s intrusion could mean only trouble, for him, for the Palms and maybe even for the Taggart interests. What kind of trouble remained to be defined, but Andy had a strong intuition that it would be best to have that definition take place right now. He sighed heavily: “To think I came down here to get away from this kind of legal nonsense.”

After a pause he placed both hands on his desk, pushed himself back and said: “Ken, go fetch him. We’d better find out up front.”

Krenek did not leap to the door. Instead he warned: “Andy, do not lose your temper with this man. You and I have seen only one aspect of the fellow, an aspect he’s carefully presented, the dumb boob. That he is not. Believe me, Andy, this man is dangerous—to you—to me—to the whole Taggart chain.”

“You’ve convinced me of that, which is why I want to confront him now, at the start.”

“Nora,” Krenek asked, “what do you think?” but before she could reply, Andy said quietly: “In a case like this, where we’re dealing with what looks like real danger, it’s what I think that matters. It’s my responsibility, and I’ve lived by the rule of meeting danger head-on.” He laughed and added: “And look where it’s got me. Kicked out of Chicago and now maybe out of Tampa. But here goes. Fetch him, Ken.”

When Krenek brought Hasslebrook into the office, Andy moved forward to shake hands and said: “I’m sure you’ve met my nursing assistant, Mrs. Varney, and you met Mr. Krenek when you applied—” In some embarrassment he corrected himself: “You’ve not met Krenek, have you? Your entry was arranged by a member of your staff in Boston. Well, this is Kenneth Krenek, and now if you’ll leave me with Mr. Hasslebrook we can go about our business.” The dismissal was not well handled and everyone knew it, but the others filed out.

They were alone together for the first time: Clarence Hasslebrook, sixty-three years old, slightly overweight, slightly disheveled, and Andy Zorn, thirty-five years old, trim in his lightweight Florida summer suit, obviously able and eager to avoid trouble if possible. He proposed to find out.

“One of our residents informed me this morning that when she went to get her mail she saw next to her package outside the post office door a large packet addressed to you, and she couldn’t help noticing that it came from an organization she knew well, Life Is Sacred, with its office in Boston, I believe.”

Hasslebrook leaned back, smiled and said: “So it was you who cut the corner of my package and sniffed inside. I suppose you know, Dr. Zorn, that you could go to jail for that?”

Zorn was stunned by the speed and daring that Hasslebrook showed in his willingness to engage his target frontally, but he did not flinch: “I assure you, as director of the Palms I’d never commit such
an act. So let’s not start by making threats. What I’m entitled to know, as the man responsible for the management of this place, is whether you are an agent of Life Is Sacred, and if so, why you inserted yourself in here as a kind of spy. And most important of all, what specifically are you spying on?”

Hasslebrook smiled, then pointed out that Zorn had asked “three monumental questions,” any one of which could be considered quite intrusive on Zorn’s part and something he was not obligated to answer.

Zorn broke into laughter, then said: “They told me you were a dullard. Couldn’t put three words together. Obviously not true. Actually, you’re too damned clever for your own good.”

“Holy Cross, Boston Law and not particularly clever, but very determined.”

“Help me—determined to do what?”

“To check into the operations of a high-class nursing home.”

“A phrase we never use.”

“But the public does, the courts do. And believe me, Dr. Zorn, nursing homes bear looking into.” Pausing just a moment, he asked: “
Doctor
Zorn? Are you in charge of medical services here? Are you the resident physician?”

Andy smiled: “Come on, Mr. Hasslebrook, you know the answers to your questions better than I do. I am not licensed to practice here in Florida, and as you must surely know, retirement centers in this state rarely have resident physicians. We rely on those in the surrounding community.”