Memorial Day Weekend, May 2008
THE WITNESS
Memory is fickle at this distance,
divided by water and years gone.
He might have been the one I saw
round eyed and running for the hollow
where the creek flows deep in fog,
where mist rises cold, silent
in that first hour of day, darkness
scudding back under the hedge.
He might have been the one
shouldering through the mesh
of blackberry vines, bleeding,
the sky black and white as shock.
It was difficult to know in that light,
and now you ask where I was
as the sun rose, how far off the hill,
what relation to the road - and I say
only the fresh mowed knoll saw it all,
marsh nosers, toads, diamond eyed snakes
there in the reeds, saw the blue light
skitter away from his scrambling feet,
saw him fall. And saw me turn away,
dashing back for the house.
But years slip apart like flowers
gone to seed and I cannot be sure
that even at the time I knew his face.
Yet I did see, oh yes, what followed him.
So far “the merry month of May” has been nothing but a stream of cataclysmic earthquakes, typhoons, upheaval, chilly weather, trauma and drama. My route partner Molly is still recovering from her dog bite, meaning that I am scrambling through the weeks on my own. My garden has stalled out as the weather continues too inhospitable for infant veggies. I spent Mother’s Day helping my son and his tabby cat get settled into a new apartment after a very unpleasant split with his fiancé. (There was to have been an August wedding in my garden - oh well, guess I can let up on the weeding, right?) I am waiting for the other shoe to drop as May spirals to a close.
Emotions are high and I am feeling the effects of sleep deprivation - what a great time to start writing a new novel! The Writers’ Workshop yesterday stirred up a dust storm of ideas. When reality presents too many challenges what better shelter than fiction? The plot I am working on revolves around what happens to a woman who suddenly finds herself responsible for an elderly uncle she has not seen or heard from in twenty years. (Friends will recognize the inspiration.)
The novel is called “Trust” - here are my first notes. What do you think, does it sound like it would be worth doing???
TRUST
Karen turned off the shower and listened. Damn, the phone. She grabbed the towel off the hook and wrapped it around her. A phone call at this hour? That can’t be good. Maybe it’s mom - something has happened to mom. She scrambled at a drippy run for the phone by her bed.
“Is this Karen Olsen?” said a man’s voice.
“Who is this? Is it about Mom?” she said, her heart in her throat. Ever since her mother entered the nursing home Karen dreaded every phone call.
“No, sorry, it’s not about your mom,” he said. “My name is Phil Hoffman.”
You’ve got to be kidding, thought Karen. A telemarketer at four-thirty in the morning?
“Do you have any idea what the hell time it is here, pal?” she screamed into the phone.
“Sorry, it can’t be helped. Are you a relative of Carl Olsen?”
“What? Who wants to know?” she said.
“As I said, my name is Phil Hoffman. I’m Carl’s neighbor. Actually I rent an apartment next to his. Are you a relative or not?”
“He’s my uncle. But I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
Karen hadn’t seen her Uncle Carl in twenty years - since the day of her dad’s funeral.
“Why are you calling me?”
“As I said, I’m one of his renters,” he said. “I found your name in Carl’s address book when I went through his desk. That old man is in serious trouble. He needs family to come take care of him. Looks like you’re it.”
“Me? Why me? Why not talk to his wife or son?” She couldn’t make any sense of this. Why would anyone call her about Uncle Carl? She could hardly even remember the man. Didn’t want to remember him.
“Good question,” said Phil. “According to your uncle your aunt died years ago. And as for the son, if you know where he is, you call him. I tried. Looks like he’s done a runner. I even drove out to Salem to check the house where your uncle said his son lived - no luck. The house looked like it had been abandoned at least a year ago.”
“Aunt Eva is dead?” said Karen. “I had no idea. We haven’t been in touch with them, as I said. What do you expect me to do about this, Mr. Hoffman? Obviously you know more about the problem, whatever it is, than I do.”
“Hey, I’m just a concerned citizen here. You’re the relative. Sounds like a pretty dysfunctional situation but you are his family. I’ll give you my address and phone number so as soon as you can get down here I can fill you in on the situation.”
Dysfunctional? Who was this guy anyway to be making judgments?
“Get down there? You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve got a job. Responsibilities. I can’t just take off for . . . where did you say you were calling from?”
“Corvallis. In Oregon. Jeez, don’t you know anything about your uncle?”
“I guess not,” said Karen. “What kind of trouble is Uncle Carl in anyway?” she asked, not sure she really wanted to know.
“You mean, besides nearly starving himself to death and wandering the neighborhood at three in the morning?” said Phil. “Judging from the stack of mail I found on his floor, the apartment building is in foreclosure and at least three people are suing him for nonpayment of loans. That’s probably just the tip of this particular iceberg, if you ask me.”
How in the world could this be happening, thought Karen? Starving and broke? How could that be? All her life Uncle Carl was the rich relative - the business owner - real estate tycoon. The heartless cheapskate.
Which was the primary reason she and her mother were not close to the Oregon branch of her father’s family. When her dad had his accident and all their money ran out paying medical bills Karen’s mother had begged her husband’s elder brother for financial help. Only to be handed every lame excuse why help would not be forthcoming. Then, later that year when every effort failed to save her father there were the funeral expenses. Once again her mother suffered the humiliation of approaching her brother-in-law for money - only to be told she ought to get on public assistance. Sorry, said Uncle Carl ignoring her tears, he just couldn’t spare anything. He had his own family to take care of.
As far as Karen knew, her mother never spoke to her brother-in-law again. She declared bankruptcy, took on three part time jobs to make ends meet and did the best she could to raise her daughter on her own. Karen, as soon as she was old enough, hired on as a waitress at the Burger Barn to take some pressure off her mother.
It wasn’t enough. Couldn’t be enough. Over the years Karen watched her mother wear herself down to a haggard, haunted shadow as if her grief and frustration were maggots eating her from the heart out. There was no joy left in her. She managed to pay the bills, providing food and clothing for her daughter but gave her little warmth. It wasn’t that she begrudged Karen - it was that she had minimal emotional resources.
As a teenager Karen hated her mother’s weakness. She hated that her mother wouldn’t fight back, that she let people and circumstances beat her down. Karen believed that people have to stick up for themselves. No way could she understand why her mother hadn’t kept after Uncle Carl until the horrible man forked over for his brother’s family. No way. Karen would have hammered at him until he caved. Or so she thought. She was young. She believed that every problem had a solution.
Years later, after battling tooth and nail to get herself through college and established in a career, Karen understood how seductive and crippling depression could be. She cut her mother some slack for her imperfections and perceived lack of backbone. Which didn’t mean she forgave her Uncle Carl for turning his back on them.
“This isn’t my problem. I hardly know the man,” said Karen, half to herself.
“Nice. You’re going to let that confused old man die in a ditch somewhere? Hey, I wouldn’t treat a junk yard dog like that.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? I’ve got enough on my plate now,” she said. “My mom just went into a nursing home. I can’t take on any more right now. Perhaps you could call Social Services if he’s a danger to himself.”
As soon as she said it she was sorry. Maybe it had been easy for her uncle to turned his back on the anguish of his brother’s family, but Karen always thought she was a better person than that.
The damp towel was slipping and she was shivering, the phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. Oh please, she thought, let this be a dream - just an odd, unpleasant dream. Something I will only vaguely remember when morning comes.
“I didn’t mean that,” she said. “About the Social Services. You’re right, of course. If Uncle Carl is in a bad way his family, what there is of it, should step in. I guess that’s me if you can’t find my cousin Gregg. Can you call me back in a few minutes? I just stepped out of the shower and I’m freezing to death standing here.”
“Sure. Glad to,” he said. “And thanks. Really.”
What am I getting myself into, she wondered as she hurriedly slipped into jeans and sweat shirt. What’s the matter with her cousin Gregg that he couldn’t take care of his own father? He’d been in his twenties when Karen last saw him so he’d have to be in his late forties now. What was he, a junkie or something? Or in jail? Where was he?
She thought the logical thing for her to do would be to locate her cousin and drop the mess on his doorstep if at all possible. Uncle Carl was, after all, his responsibility not hers. Karen figured that finding Gregg wouldn’t be too difficult considering that she worked for Emerald City Investigations. True, she was the office manager not a P.I., but over the years she’d learned a thing or two about skip tracing and records searches. If Gregg was still on the planet she would find him. But when she found him was it going to make any difference?
The next morning before dawn Karen pointed her Toyota south on I-5 toward Oregon after arranging for a week’s family leave and with her neighbor to look after the cat for a few days. There was no way of telling how long it was going to take her to get matters sorted out in Corvallis. She had already done a little preliminary search for her cousin - employment records, DMV, address history etc. You could locate almost everything there is about an individual if you knew where to look. Scary in the hands of the bad guys but handy knowledge if you need to find someone.
* * *
Half way to Oregon Karen pulled off for lunch at the Sheri’s Restaurant in Kelso. She used the time to check her e-mail and call her girlfriend, Marg, letting her know were she’d gone.
She ordered a Denver omelet with hash browns. There goes the diet, she thought. Not that she seriously considered weight watching. Her daily run around Arbor Lake kept off any extra bulk but not a few twinges of guilt when overcome with lust for greasy, salty potato delights. Karen never met a potato she didn’t like - a vulnerability she put at her Irish mother’s doorstep.
“Here ya go, honey. Need a refill on the coffee?” said the septuagenarian waitress whose name tag read “Cindy”, though Karen thought she looked more like an Agatha.
“Thanks. Just a warm up, Cindy,” she said. “I have to get back on the road pretty soon.”
“On yer way to Portland?” said Cindy.
“Nope. Corvallis.” she wondered why she told her. Not that it was any secret but she couldn’t imagine how her trip to Oregon would interest the waitress.
“Hmm. I noticed yer briefcase and thought ya might be on a business trip.”
Must mean my computer case, thought Karen.
“Well, I am on business but to Corvallis.”
“Corvallis?” said Cindy as if Karen had just declared she was launching a fragrance line on Mars.
“Something wrong with Corvallis?”
“Heck, no. Got family down that way myself. Nothing wrong with old Corvallis. Agriculture college town, ya know. Lots a cows and grass.” Cindy scooted off to skate coffee to the next table.
That was kind of weird, thought Karen. But in a tiny wide spot in the road like Kelso there were bound to be lots of peculiar characters.
Sheri’s was filled with retirees ordering off the “Honored” menu. None looked a day under eighty. Probably from a retirement community up the street, thought Karen. So many elderly people doing just fine for themselves, taking care of each other, the highlight of their day being lunch at Sheri’s with their good buddies. Would she have to be shopping for a place like that for Uncle Carl?
Then the other question that had been nagging at her - was she legally allowed to anything at all on his behalf? Probably not. She would have to get a power of attorney or something. Did Uncle Carl have a lawyer who could fill her in on what was needed? What if her uncle was so incompetent that he couldn’t make legal decisions anymore? What would she do then?
Surely Cousin Gregg would be his guardian or have power of attorney or something. What do people do who have nobody but a reluctant stranger to look after their welfare? Here she was driving five hours down to Central Oregon, perhaps only to find she didn’t have the paperwork needed to access information and not legally able to authorize so much as a Band-Aid.
At least in the case of her mother she was able sign her into the nursing home when it was clear she couldn’t manage on her own. The nursing home was nearby and had a visiting psychiatrist who specialized in elder care. But what was available in little Corvallis? She knew nothing about the area. How would she find the services her uncle needed?
If indeed he needed anything at all, she thought with a start. What was the matter with her, coming all this way on the say-so of a total stranger on the phone? This whole thing might be some kind of sick joke. Why hadn’t she done any checking before she left home?
The guy who says his name if Phil Hoffman. How do I know that’s who it is, thought Karen. Obviously he knows Uncle Carl is my relative. He could have gotten that from my uncle’s address book, just as he says. He could be a neighbor. Or he could be my cousin or one of my cousin’s kids. I know that Gregg is or was married and has a few kids who might be grown by now. Would I recognize Gregg’s voice? Not likely. But if it is Gregg why is he drawing me down to Corvallis? So that he can dump his dad on me? Why would he do that? If he wanted to abandon his dad all he’d have to do is take off for parts unknown. Like “Phil Hoffman” contended he did. No, nothing made much sense. To unravel this mystery she needed to go to Corvallis and nose around.
Well, I’m half way there now, thought Karen, so I might as well continue on - might as well treat it as an unplanned vacation. That way if it turns out there was nothing to what this Hoffman guy says I can at least kick back for a few days at the hotel which, according to the web site, had a really gorgeous pool. Surely a college town had someplace to buy a swimsuit.
College town, huh. That sounded interesting. Karen would get online as soon as she checked in at the hotel and find out as much as she could about the area. It had to be a decent size to have a college - that meant there were resources she could tap.
“More coffee?” Cindy was back.
“No thanks. If I have any more coffee I’ll have to stop before I get there,” said Karen, though she’d already had too many refills. “Say, Cindy, could you get me a piece of the blueberry pie to go?“
“You bet.”
What’s the matter with me, thought Karen, since when do I eat dessert? She didn’t even like pie, much less blueberry, which in her limited experience was usually tasteless and gelatinous. The piece of pie would sit in its styrofoam clamshell in the passenger seat like a white stone all the way to Corvallis where it would find burial in the nearest trash can.
Karen herded the last few bites of hash browns around her plate without lifting any to her mouth. Stalling. Yes, that’s what she was doing, she thought. It had been so easy to escape from Seattle on the spur of the moment - dumping her responsibilities on friends while she slipped out of town before dawn. All she had needed was the flimsiest of excuses - a phone call from a stranger - and she was off down the coast to rescue a man that may not even need or want rescuing. A man that Karen wasn’t sure deserved rescuing.
Away. It hadn’t mattered why or where. She’d bolted like a kid let out of detention. Had getting her mother into the nursing home been that much of a relief? What the hell kind of daughter did that make her, thought Karen. Of course she knew she had done the right thing. Her mother was cared for and safe now. Karen didn’t have to worry any more about coming home to find her mother sitting in the living room talking to herself while the soup burned over in the kitchen.
That had been the deciding moment. Walking in the door, smoke billowing across the ceiling, the smoke detector splitting the air - and her mother just sitting calm as can be in her recliner chair, chattering away to no one. If I had been only five minutes late getting home, thought Karen, if I had stopped for a tank of gas or a bag of groceries the house would have gone up in flames. Mother would have died right then. And it would have been my fault for not being there.
