Sorrow Road (15 page)

“Same aide?”

“Pardon?”

“Was it the same aide who found both residents dead?”

Layman searched the sheet. “Why, yes. Yes, it was. Marcy Coates. One of our best employees. Very reliable. Been with us since we opened.”

“And who found Harmon Strayer?”

This time Layman did not need to look down. “That was Marcy as well.”

“I'd like to speak to her.”

The director frowned. “She's already been interviewed by Deputy Wilkins. And it's really not something she enjoys talking about, Mrs. Elkins. It was quite traumatic.”

“I'll try my best not to upset her. But it's important.”

A beat. “Fine,” Layman said. “I'll get a phone number for you. She has the next few days off. It was the least we could do.” She hit a few keys on her computer. “Yes. Here it is.”

Bell put the number in her cell. “Thank you.”

Now she waited. When Layman did not speak, Bell filled the silence herself. “How did Harmon Strayer die?”

Layman closed the file folder. She re-linked her fingers on top of it. Her dark eyes moved to the single window in her office. It looked out on another parking lot at the side of the building, a gray rectangle in which only two cars were parked, on opposite sides of the lot. At the edge of the space was a long pile of frozen snow, shoved there by a plow and heaped up. It wasn't much of a view.

After a few seconds Layman looked back at Bell.

“That was difficult,” she said, her voice grave. “And it's even sadder, given what happened to his daughter this weekend. Harmon was a favorite with all of us. He was very respected around here. Respected and loved. Did you know he served in World War II? He was part of the D-Day landing. The thing about Alzheimer's, Mrs. Elkins—and maybe this is old news to you—is that you often lose short-term memories but not the longer-term ones. Not the oldest ones, the ones that you've had for decades.

“So Harmon couldn't tell you what he had for breakfast five minutes after his meal—but he
could
describe every detail of being on a U.S. Navy ship on D-Day. I mean
everything
—the gray color of the sky, the smell of the ocean. The way the Normandy coast looked as they got closer and closer. They weren't part of the original landing force—their ship was there to search for survivors. Or for any soldiers, alive
or
dead, who were still in the water. They were going to take them home.”

“Did all those details come from Harmon?”

“Some. And some came from Darlene. She and I had a lot of conversations about her father. She'd grown up hearing the stories about his experiences on D-Day. And I got the rest of it from his oldest friend, the Reverend Alvie Sherrill, who also visited here quite often. Twice, three times a month. He'd sit with Harmon in the lounge. Always brought a checkerboard. I guess he hoped they'd play a game. That was never going to happen—Harmon was well beyond the ability to play checkers. But that's what they had done, for so many years, and so the reverend brought the checkerboard. It was a kind of symbol, he told me. Of what they'd meant to each other. Finally he just left the checkerboard here. Said he didn't need it anymore.

“He and Harmon would sit there at a little table in the lounge, hour after hour, with that checkerboard between them. When Harmon first came to live here, you might hear some conversation, but in the last few months, Reverend Sherrill did all the talking. That's what happens, Mrs. Elkins. Most of our residents don't talk at all anymore. I can tell you this, though. Harmon was blessed—blessed to have a loyal friend like that, as well as a devoted daughter. Harmon was one of the lucky ones.”

“And the cause of death?”

“Same as the others. Natural causes. Harmon just didn't wake up one morning.” Layman paused. “You would think we'd be ready for it,” she said. “I mean, our residents are in their eighties and nineties, for the most part. And in the final stages of Alzheimer's. Their lives are basically over. But Harmon's death hit us hard.”

“How did Darlene take it?”

“Not well. I was concerned about her. She seemed so—so torn apart, really. The news just destroyed her. She was definitely having trouble accepting it. Asked me a million questions. Demanded to talk with the staff. She told me she'd been a federal prosecutor—and wow, did it ever show! She could argue like nobody's business. It was her way of coping, I suppose—charging around, getting all the facts. But you know what? I'm going to miss her.”

“Doesn't sound like it.”

“Oh, don't misunderstand. She was tough on me, sure. But I'd rather deal with irate family members all day long than have to think about the residents who are truly alone. The ones nobody makes a fuss over. The ones nobody ever comes to see. The ones nobody cares about.”

“I can understand that.”

Layman laughed a quiet, soon-concluded laugh. “Well, I'm not sure my
staff
understands it. They get pretty weary of being screamed at by children or grandchildren or spouses who stop by once in a blue moon and want to know why Daddy's shirt is on backward. Or why Grandma's trying to flush the forks and spoons down the toilet. They don't understand. They're not here often enough to know how much their family member has deteriorated. And so when they do come by, and they see someone who looks an awful lot like their father or their husband or their great aunt—but who is acting like a demented stranger, they're shocked. And then they feel guilty. Guilty people have to find somebody else to blame. Lashing out is a pretty typical response.”

I like this woman,
Bell thought.
And I admire the way she handles her job.

Liking and admiring, however, did not automatically equate to trusting.

“So you had a few run-ins with Darlene,” Bell said.

“Nothing serious. We always worked it out. Everything she did was in her father's best interest—and it's hard to argue with that.” Layman looked as if she was trying to find a way to describe the Darlene Strayer she had known. “I think what impressed me most was how she let Harmon have his dignity. She refused to treat him like a child. No matter how much he'd declined.”

“How so?”

“Well, a few months ago, she found out that one of her father's best friends had been killed. A hit-and-run accident in Bluefield. A man named Victor Plumley. They'd all grown up together in a little town called Norbitt—Harmon, Reverend Sherrill, and Plumley. As teenagers they'd joined the service together. They were all on that ship on D-Day. After the war, they settled back in their hometown. Anyway, Darlene came to me with the news about Plumley. Asked if I thought she should tell her father. I told her not to. All it would do at that point was upset him. See, the thing about Alzheimer's is—he was likely to forget about his friend's death in about two minutes, anyway. So why tell him? Why put him through all that grief for nothing?

“But Darlene didn't agree. She thought about it a little while, and then she said, ‘I have to tell him. Vic was his friend. Even if he forgets it a few seconds after I break the news, he deserves to know.' She wanted to honor her father with the truth. For Darlene, it was always about the truth.”

Hardly,
Bell thought. She pictured the small blue chip Deputy Oakes had found in her friend's pocket, revealing the secret of her alcoholism.

The phone on the desk rang. Layman held up an index finger. “Just a sec,” she said to Bell. “Yes. Yes. No,” she said into the phone. “I'll have to get back to you on that one.” Pause. “Okay, then—if you have to know right now, then no.” She hung up. “This job has toughened me up considerably. My new motto is, ‘She who hesitates is ignored.'”

Bell rose. “I'd better let you get back to work.”

“One thing.” Layman kept her seat. “I've answered your questions. Will you answer one of mine?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you come here today?”

“I told you. Darlene asked me to.”

“It's more than that, though. Isn't it?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I mean,” said Layman, who by now had decided to rise, too, putting herself at Bell's level, “that it wasn't easy for you to get way out here. I know what those roads are like. You could have just called. And I also know that county prosecutors don't have a lot of spare time. I don't think you would have gone to all this trouble just to hear about a death from natural causes. And anyway, it's old news now. It's history.”

Bell let a few seconds go by. “Are you from the area?”

Layman hesitated. Her face indicated that she wondered if this was some kind of trap.

“No,” she finally said. “Born and raised in Indianapolis.”

“I'm not surprised. If you were from these parts, you'd understand that there's no such thing as history.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“There's no such thing as history,” Bell went on, “because it's all still right here. The past never goes away. It's in the air. It's all around you, every second. It's just another name for the present.”

“Still don't understand.”

“Stick around long enough,” Bell said, “and you will. Thanks for your cooperation.” At the doorway, she turned. “Mind if I give myself a quick tour?”

“Not at all. I'd be happy to escort you, but I have a conference call with corporate coming up. Can't miss it.” Layman gave her the code for the keypad.

For the next twenty minutes, Bell walked through the corridors of Thornapple Terrace. She did not doubt that Layman really did have a conference call scheduled. But she also knew that letting a visitor nose around without a chaperone made a compelling point: The staff here had nothing to hide.

A muted calm pervaded the place like an odorless scent. The carpet was a light plum shade. The ceiling was creamy white. A waist-high wooden rail ran the length of both sides of the hall, broken only by the doors to the residents' rooms. Most of the doors were open, and most of the rooms were occupied. The person inside either sat in a straight-backed chair next to the single bed, or stood by the window, looking out at the gray-and-white world of deep winter. Sometimes they noticed Bell, and offered her a face devoid of curiosity. Mostly, though, they did not notice her.

In one room, a lanky man in overalls and work boots was balanced on a stepladder. He was reaching up with a screwdriver to make an adjustment to the sprinkler head, which extended from the ceiling in a small silver ring. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, hence Bell speculated that he was most likely an employee and not a resident. His movements were fluid and assured, and there was a seriousness of purpose in those movements, the kind of focus that was, Bell knew from her reading about Alzheimer's, generally no longer possible for the people who lived here. He looked down at her and nodded. He had the kind of face she liked—weathered, resolute. No fake smile. She gave a slight wave. She moved on.

She passed an emaciated woman of perhaps eighty or so who had stopped in the hall, feet spread, body bent and tense. She clutched the wooden rail with both hands, as if she were stranded on a high bridge and afraid of falling. Those hands were as twisted as tree roots. She called out to Bell. Bell turned.

“Yes?”

“I have to go home,” the woman said. She wore a black turtleneck, black sweatpants with a white stripe down the side, and white tennis shoes. Her short white hair was combed straight back from her forehead. Her face had collapsed in on itself, the features receding into a conical basket of wrinkles. Her eyes were startlingly blue. But it was an empty blue, the blue of endless sky.

“I'm sorry,” Bell said. “I can't help you.”

“I have to go home,” the woman repeated. “I'm late.”

“I'm afraid I can't—”

“I said I have to go home!
I have to go home!
” And just like that, the old woman's agitation clicked in, and she reached out to claw at Bell's arm while she screamed. “Now! Now! Now! Now! Now!”

A woman in a pink smock and white polyester slacks swiftly appeared; she had been in one of the resident's rooms. She artfully wrangled the old woman, securing an arm around the hunched shoulders while prying the desperate hand from Bell's sleeve.

“Stop it, Millie,” the aide commanded. Her voice was firm. Coddling would not get the job done. “Let's go. Come on. Back to your room.” She gave Bell a bleak smile. She looked almost as old as the woman she was subduing, but her eyes were inhabited; they carried rich notes of awareness, of sentience. Duty mingled with sympathy in those eyes, Bell thought. Fatigue, too.

By now the maintenance man had come into the hall as well. “Everything under control, Amber?” he said.

“Got it, Travis,” the aide replied. “Thanks, though.”

“Okay. Just give a holler if you need me.”

Bell continued her journey. She passed more residents up and down the hall, walking or standing, women and men who seemed as faded and diaphanous as pastel scarves tucked away in a forgotten drawer, their hair wispy, their skin dry, their spines crumbling under the steady assault of gravity and time. Most of them ignored her; some glared. A few smiled. One woman laughed, too loud and too long, and then stopped abruptly. A man cried—softly, with no emotion, and the only way you could know he was crying was the wetness on his papery cheeks. These people seemed like ghosts who returned again and again to a place that was supposed to be familiar, but somehow wasn't. Ghosts who haunted themselves.

Bell felt a gradual recognition of memory as more than simply an assemblage of known facts and mastered capacities and recalled experiences, and more, even, than personal identity, but as the very tent pole of life, every life, the solid vertical rod at the center of things. When it collapsed, the fabric gathered in folds around your feet; if the wind blew, everything was swept away. And the wind was always blowing.