Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

“Well, I do know I could never be with a drag queen.” She stopped then laughed. “Sometimes in an evening gown I feel like a drag queen.”

“You mean I can’t raid your closet?”

“You’d never fit in my clothes.”

“I don’t have your beautiful breasts.”

“The moustache wouldn’t help.”

They laughed, happy in each other’s company. They really were the right two people for each other.

Gray pulled the trailer next to the stable so they could unload without fuss. Tootie and Weevil were in the kennel. Their horses were turned out, rugs in place. Betty’s trailer, neatly parked in the parking lot, displayed how muddy the roads were.

Horses unloaded, cleaned up, given fresh water and a bit of warm mash, were then turned out to romp before nightfall. Those four-legged kids could have hunted hard and long but they needed their playtime, equine gossip, and kicking up hind legs. What a life.

Finally back in the house, showered, hunt kit neatly hanging on pegs in the mudroom to be brushed tomorrow, boots polished, the two sat down for a restorative drink.

Golly, Raleigh, and Rooster plopped on the floor of the kitchen. Sister boiled water for tea. Gray made himself a simple scotch, two ice cubes with a splash of water. He could never understand why one would buy good liquor then besmirch it with stuff. Maybe an orange peel or lemon but that was the limit.

“Sure you don’t want a hot cup of tea to chase your drink? I still feel a bit of cold in my bones.”

“I can take the cold. It’s the rawness. Snow is easier than cold rain.”

“Is.” She brought her cup to the table.

“Baby,” he rarely called her that, “take me to see the desk. Now, I am not going to pay all of it, but if it’s that special we can split it. You have talked about that desk ever since I returned from D.C.”

“Thank you, honey.” She took a sip. “Gray, it goes so fast, both life and money.”

CHAPTER 8

March 1, 2019 Friday

A turn-of-the-century low brick building that had once housed a large machine shop on Harris Street in Charlottesville had been turned into offices, including a high-tech gym. A long polished hallway ran through the center of the old rectangular edifice.

Sister Jane opened the door to the gym, stepping into the hall at either the wrong time or the right time. Exiting in front of her, Drew and Bainbridge Taylor were deep in an argument.

“I am not doing this,” Bainbridge spat.

“It’s your father.” Drew glanced up, seeing Sister.

Bainbridge turned in the direction of his uncle’s line of sight. “Don’t listen to him. I know they’ve all said I stole the silver from Pitchfork Farm, was loaded on drugs. It’s a lie. All a lie.”

Sister calmly replied, “Bainbridge, gossip is part of life. First of all, why would you steal the family’s silver? Makes no sense.”

“Right.” He stood straighter, feeling justified. “Mother left half the silver to me, half to my father, plus I am his heir. My ever-so-solicitous uncle took the silver into his house when my father began to lose it.”

“I did. Dammit. I don’t know who goes in and out of your place. A bunch of worthless assholes. They’d steal the silver.”

“So I’m a worthless asshole, too?”

“Gentlemen, I think I should be going.”

“No.” Bainbridge implored her. “You’re a straight shooter. I’ve known you all my life. I want you to hear my side of the story. I’m not as bad as Uncle Drew makes out.”

“Bainbridge, I don’t think you’re bad but I do think you need a career that can focus your many talents. You always were a bright kid.” She exaggerated, for Bainbridge was only average.

“Which is why he got into so much trouble.” Drew unfortunately opened his mouth as Sister was soothing his nephew. “He was doing okay until his mother died three years ago. Fell apart, and of course that’s when Morris began to really unravel.”

“I did not fall apart.”

“I’d say losing your job, drinking and drugging, hanging out with those worthless people count as falling apart.” Drew sounded triumphant.

“Might I ask what you two are doing here?” Sister hoped to steer the conversation away from recrimination so she could get the hell out of there.

“An Alzheimer’s support group. I asked Bainbridge to come.”

“That was good of you, Bainbridge.” She smiled at him. “I suppose there are stages one can recognize. I don’t really know.”

A silence followed this then the young man said, “He’s crackers. Knows who we are but babbles. Sometimes I know what he’s saying. Other times he’s talking to Mom even though she’s been gone three years. And sometimes, and this is really weird, Dad talks to his own mother. I can’t stand it.”

“He can’t help it.” Drew’s anger was rising again. “And I want the silver back. It’s not safe in your apartment.”

“No. That’s my half. What if you sell it behind my back?”

Sister folded her arms across her ample chest more to rest her shoulders than anything, for her one shoulder ached in the cold. She ignored Bainbridge’s accusation, grateful that Drew did also. “Is it possible that you all could talk to the coordinator of the support group without other people there?”

As she said this others filed out from the room, which with the door open could be seen to have couches and comfortable chairs placed for people to relax and talk.

“I don’t need therapy and I’m not a drug addict. Yes, I did have some Oxycontin in my system when I was picked up but I took that for pain. I’m not hooked.” Bainbridge’s lower lip stuck out.

“I certainly hope not,” his former master rejoined. “I don’t so much think of this as therapy, but you two have a lot on your hands. If you could cooperate it might be easier.”

“The truth is, Bainbridge, your father will never get better, only worse.”

“You don’t know that. He has lucid moments. And maybe there are new drugs coming on the market that could help.” The young man sounded both defiant and sorrowful.

“Amazing breakthroughs happen it seems every day. How wonderful it would be if one happened in time for your father. He was a brilliant man,” Sister remarked with feeling, then looked at Drew. “Is he ready for structured living? I mean, do you think it’s gone that far?”

“No.” Bainbridge raised his voice.

Ignoring him, his uncle replied to Sister. “You saw him at Cindy Chandler’s. He knows his old friends, he more or less knew where he was, even if he didn’t remember how he got there. But change terrifies someone with dementia or Alzheimer’s. Were I to move him into a home I think he’d lose it. At least with me he lives in familiar surroundings. He still knows who I am. He has his own room with those things Bainbridge and I took from his old home and we put up a lot of pictures of Sharon.” He mentioned Morris’s deceased wife.

“I see.”

Bainbridge hopped in. “He chirps around at the house. My worry is he’ll wander off. His nurse doesn’t keep track of him plus he’s expensive.”

“We aren’t at this point yet but when it comes I will have to put him away or lock him in his bedroom. I know it sounds awful but there will be items that he might still recognize. As for his nurse, what else can I do?”

She nodded. “Well, I don’t envy either of you this decision.”

“And the best home is in Gordonsville. Really the best and that’s about eight thousand dollars a month. There’s always a doctor on the premises.”

“Drew, I had no idea.” And she didn’t either.

“There are quite a few worthy homes in the area but they begin to, well, diminish when the price falls under four thousand a month. With four thousand you usually get a doctor at least part-time and the staff has trained nurses as well as a locked ward for the most advanced cases. Then, too, if you don’t have a physician, drugs can’t be administered. The patient has to be driven to the hospital and that frightens them. Then you must restrain them. Sister, it’s awful.”