Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe by Barry Friedman Read Free Book Online

there?”
    She said, “I’m waiting for an answer to my question. What do you want?”
    What I really wanted was to shove a firecracker up her fat ass. But I said, “Please, I’d like to make an appointment to visit the Rogers . That is, if it’s convenient.” That’s telling her, right? Pussy Fosdick.
    “You are who again?”
    “Henry Callins, 1087.” My apartment number.
    I heard some rustling of papers. Then, “I can squeeze you in at 3:15.”
    “Today?”
    “No, next Christmas. Of course today.” Unsaid was “You moron.”
    “Thank you, thank you,” I said. If I sounded grateful, I was. In fact, I could hardly believe it had been that easy. Had I been mistaken, and falsely assumed there was something mysterious and ominous going on in Assisted Living? Obviously, my trepidation was a figment of my imagination. More proof, if I needed any, that I was a chronic worrier. I saw demons under the bed when there were only dust balls.
    I was at the door to the Care Center and Assisted Living at 3:15. Sharp. As before, the door cracked open on the dot and Freddie (no more Fredricka now that we were pals) gestured for me to come in.
    We rode the elevator up to the Assisted Living floor. I followed her down the silent, spotless corridor, her rubber-soled shoes quietly hissing, while my footsteps embarrassingly clopped.
    To her back, I said. “This place is certainly quiet.” Showing her how observant I was.
    When there was no comment from her, I went on. “Are these apartments filled or vacant?”
     
    She half turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Mostly.”
    Mostly what? Filled? Or mostly vacant? I hesitated to ask for fear I’d offend her and alienate our friendship.
    Like the last time I’d been in the Assisted Living facility, I didn’t see anyone in the corridors. I was sure the Rogers were not the only residents here, but where were the others? In their apartments behind the closed doors we passed? Out for some of the activities such as exercise classes or a lecture? I’d have to ask Chet, or Kurt Berman, if I ever got to meet him. I doubt I’d get more than a few words from Fredricka. She was all business.
    By this time we had arrived at the door to the Rogers ’ apartment. As on my last visit, she opened the door without knocking. I thought she was being impolite or presumptuous. What if they’d been on the toilet, or in the shower. But there they were, seated side-by-side on a small sofa, smiling. At least, Christine was smiling. Larry’s lips were drawn to the side, obviously from his facial hemiplegia. Although the room seemed quite warm to me, a blanket was draped over their legs.
    I said, “Hi.”
    In unison they said, “Hi.” Even Larry’s greeting seemed clearer than it had been. I knew that even before they were transferred to Assisted Living, Larry had been receiving speech therapy. But until now there didn’t seem to be much improvement.
    “Living here seems to agree with you, Larry,” I said.
    He nodded. “Uh-huh.”
    “How about you, Christine? Are you doing okay?”
    “I’m doing okay.”
    I was elated to hear the report. I couldn’t wait to tell their daughter. I said, “The other day I spoke to Helen.”
    Christine said, “The other day you spoke to Helen.” A statement, not a question.
    “Daughter. Helen.” I didn’t think it needed clarification, but of course, there are more Helens than their daughter.
    “Daughter Helen.,” said Christine.
    I gazed at the ceiling. Smiled. “There seems to be an echo in here.” Me and my clever lines.
    I felt a tugging on my sleeve. I turned to face Freddie.
    She tapped her wrist. “Time’s up.”
    “It’s only been a few minutes,” I protested.
    “I don’t want them tired out.”
    I couldn’t see where our conversation was tiring, but who was I to argue with a professional.
    Freddie was pulling me out of the door. I said, “Listen, I’ll be back real soon, so you kids behave.”
    As Freddie closed the door, I could