At Risk of Being a Fool by Jeanette Cottrell Read Free Book Online

paused, and recovered quickly. “Miranda.”
    Edward looked at her quizzically. He shook his finger at her, moving his whole hand with the effort. An engaging grin spread over his face. “You made that up.”
    “You got me,” she confessed, laughing. She hugged his shoulders and helped him stand. With Parkinson’s, the brain forgot which muscles were which. The brain said, move the foot . The foot said, who, me ? After a moment’s pause, Edward’s foot remembered and moved forward.
    “Ah well, I’ll let it go, then. But you’re far too trusting, my dear. Like my wife.”
    “I’m your wife, Edward. I’m Jeanie.”
    Edward frowned. “I’m afraid not. My wife’s at work now. She’s a teacher. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but it’s best to keep these things clear.”
    “But Edward—”
    “McCoy,” he said gently. “Mr. McCoy, that’s best, isn’t it? I remember your husband. I believe we once worked together, didn’t we?”
    “No, Edward.”
    “Yes, indeed. Years ago, when we were tracing chemical seepage in the water supply. Your husband was the state inspector, wasn’t he? His name was Carl.”
    The dementia had defeated her. Senior moments finally mutated into another state. “Miranda” was a terrorist spy; Nate, the night security guard at Oriole’s Nest, was trying to collect classified information on nuclear submarines. Edward’s Navy days were long gone, but his mind clung tenaciously to the word “classified,” and met the conversational gambits of nurses and doctors with polite suspicion.
    “No,” Jeanie’s voice shook. “My husband’s name is Edward.”
    “The same as mine? Oh no, it was Carl. Quite a man with a story, he was. Very fond of his wife.” Edward patted her hand. “What was his last name?”
    Jeanie felt sick at heart. “I don’t know.” A small but significant number of Parkinson’s patients suffered from dementia. More suffered from depression. At least he’d escaped that.
    Edward stopped and looked at her in surprise. “Your own husband, and you don’t know his name?”
    “Edward, you—” Forty years, but he didn’t remember. In spite of herself, her eyes stung. So, she couldn’t remember her spouse’s name? She cleared her throat, and filed the bittersweet joke to tell Shelley. “Take a step, Edward. Let’s keep walking, shall we? You wanted to walk to the oak trees, you said. Lift your foot.”
    The first step was always the hardest.
    Edward studied a motorcycle crossing the street in front of them, turning his head to follow it to end of the street.
    “I’ve seen that man before,” he mused. “Several times.”
    “I’m amazed you can tell. To me, they all look alike in those helmets and billowing jackets.” She helped him off the curb. “There’s a young lawyer near my school who has a motorcycle a bit like that, but I can’t tell them apart. Oscar Kemmerich. He worries me, Edward. He seems to know things he shouldn’t know.”
    “Lawyers often do,” said Edward dryly.
    “But he knew where Quinto worked,” she said. “I told you about Quinto, one of my students? He’s doing construction. There was an accident at Quinto’s job site, and his boss got hurt. We saw the lawyer at school yesterday, and he knew Quinto on sight.”
    “He knew the boy’s name, or his face?”
    Jeanie frowned. “His face, I think. I don’t remember if he used Quinto’s name. Quinto’s never met him before.” If Quinto hadn’t lied.
    “It’s not really a mystery, is it? He probably saw the boy at the courthouse some time. If he’s hungry for work, he probably gathers information by the ream. A young man?”
    “Straight out of law school, I’d say. Frantically insecure.”
    Edward grinned. “I’ve heard my wife say that exact thing. You must be a teacher.”
    He seemed so rational, so easy to converse with; it was easy to forget his condition. “Yes, I am.” The walkway to Oriole’s Nest’s front door curved before