Marcia Talley - Tomorrow's Vengeance

‘It’s so embarrassing,’ Safa continued. ‘Masud will have to come along while I talk to those men. I can’t be in a room alone with them.’

I thought about the glass-enclosed conference room situated just off the lobby with its inlaid walnut table, comfortable upholstered chairs, and gas log fireplace. ‘But you wouldn’t exactly be alone . Anyone passing by would be able to see what was going on inside,’ I pointed out. ‘What could be the harm in that?’

‘“Being alone with,”’ she drew quote marks in the air, ‘also includes situations where a man is conversing with a woman, even out in the open where they can be seen by other people, if their words cannot be heard.’

I silently counted to three, suppressing an exasperated sigh. Why did converts always seem so zealous, more zealous even than those born into the faith? ‘The interviewer is just as likely to be a woman,’ I said gently. ‘But in case it isn’t, would it be acceptable if a woman came along instead of your husband? If so, I will be happy to do it.’

Her face brightened. ‘Would you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m surprised they haven’t called you, too, Hannah.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s possible someone did, but I was out late babysitting my grandkids last night, so when I got home I fell right into bed without checking my messages.’ I patted my handbag. ‘Hold on.’

I scrabbled around in the murky depths of my bag until I found my iPhone. I switched it on and studied the display. ‘Darn, there is a message.’

‘You have the ringer turned off,’ Safa pointed out helpfully.

With an exasperated sigh, I switched the ringer back on, tapped the messages icon, put the phone to my ear and listened.

‘I’m to pop in for a chat with them, too,’ I told her after the message ended. ‘At my convenience, of course, but would tomorrow at one-thirty be OK? I’m to let the director know.’

‘I’m sure they’ll want to interview us separately,’ Safa said. She clouded up. ‘I guess I’ll need to find somebody else to accompany me.’

‘As if we’re going to put our heads together on a story,’ I huffed. Safa looked crestfallen so I added, thinking quickly, ‘I’ll ask my friend, Nadine. I’m sure she’ll be happy to do it.’

Since I had my cell phone in my hand, I called Naddie. She answered on the first ring. ‘No, no, not doing anything special, Hannah, just… Hate to confess that I’m wasting the morning watching a rerun of Masterchef .’

When Naddie readily agreed to chaperone Safa for her interview, if it came to that, I gave Safa a thumb’s up. Still, she didn’t smile.

‘Look,’ I said a few minutes later, taking pity. ‘Naddie, Izzy and I have a trip planned to the Baltimore Art Gallery this Thursday, then lunch at a little place around the corner afterwards. Would you like to come?’

Her remarkable eyes lit up. ‘Oh, yes! Can I let you know?’

I figured she’d have to ask Masud for permission, but what could go wrong with three women acting as chaperones? ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Just call when you can.’

Safa had taken three steps down the hallway when I stopped her. ‘Safa?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you report the incident with Nancy and Jerry to the Office of Health Care Quality?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Why?’

‘Did you tell anyone else?’

‘Yes, Masud, of course. Didn’t you tell your husband?’

I had to confess that I had, via cell phone when he telephoned the previous evening from somewhere off the coast of Long Island. Paul had laughed it off, though, so I knew he hadn’t spilled the beans to the authorities. I wasn’t so sure about Masud…

Still, it was more than likely that Elaine had decided to play it safe and report the incident to Tyson Bennett, who would have had no choice but to take it up the chain of command. Rules were rules, I thought sourly. And sometimes, if you didn’t follow the rules, there were consequences.

Save us from intransigent bureaucrats, I thought as I waved Safa goodbye.

In the memory unit office I learned from Elaine Broening that Nancy Harper was in the art studio. ‘You should visit,’ she suggested. ‘There’s nothing childlike or primitive about Nancy’s work. It’s as if her fingers remember what her failing brain cannot.’

The art studio, I knew, was several doors down from the library, on the opposite side of the hallway. When I got there, the instructor welcomed me, introduced herself – an unnecessary formality since her nametag said ‘Mindy’ in black capital letters at least two inches high.

‘I’m assigned to Nancy today,’ I told her.

‘She’s at the table over by the window.’ Mindy pointed with clay-caked hands. ‘We’re working with clay,’ she told me unnecessarily. ‘Sculpting things from memory.’

Half-a-dozen seniors were hunched over lumps of clay at two long tables in the bright, cheerful room. The walls were decorated with residents’ art. On the worktable nearest me, a dog – or perhaps it was a cat – was emerging out of the shapeless lump in front of Chuck, the mustachioed guy who’d sat next to me at the lobby singfest. Next to Chuck sat Lillian, who I hadn’t seen since our adventure in the garden several days earlier.

I touched her shoulder. ‘Hello, Lillian.’

She looked up at me with no sign of recognition. ‘Hello. Is it time for lunch?’

‘Not yet,’ I told her. I indicated the block of clay she was pounding into submission with a loosely-balled fist. ‘That’s nice. What are you making?’

‘It’s Banjo,’ Lillian said, which didn’t exactly answer the question.

‘Who’s Banjo?’ I asked.

‘One of my babies. I have lots of babies.’

I figured I’d have to wait until all the clay that wasn’t Banjo was excised from the lump before I’d be able to determine what kind of baby Banjo was. ‘That’s nice,’ I said stupidly.

At the sound of my voice, Nancy looked up from her project and waved. An obelisk rose straight and true from the mound of white modeling clay in front of her.

‘Oh, look,’ I said, taking a few steps in her direction. ‘It’s the Washington Monu-’ I paused and caught my breath. Nancy had sculpted a fully erect penis, so perfectly rendered that it could have been cast from a mold. What I had taken for shrubbery at the base of the famous Washington landmark was, in fact, an equally perfectly sculptured scrotum.

Nancy beamed then spread her clay-caked hands. ‘Tah dah!’

‘It’s, uh, very good,’ I said truthfully, thinking how fortunate it was that Safa Abaza hadn’t been assigned to work with Nancy today. ‘I didn’t realize what an artist you are.’

‘I like to draw, too,’ Nancy said, pinching a bit of clay off one side of her project and adding it to the other. She leaned back, closed an eye and considered the effect.

I felt my face flush. ‘That’s extraordinary,’ I said to Mindy, meaning it. ‘The detail!’

‘Indeed. It’s amazing what’s stored in the brain of even the most advanced dementia patient. An incredible wealth of memories can be unlocked with music or with art.’

‘Nancy’s certainly enjoying herself,’ I said. ‘Should I come back later?’

‘We’ll have her back in her room at around two.’

‘What are you going to do with Nancy’s sculpture?’ I whispered. I couldn’t imagine it would be going on display on the credenza in Tyson Bennett’s office or in the Calvert Colony gallery along with other examples of resident art.

‘We’ll dump the clay back in the tub,’ Mindy said. ‘By tomorrow she’ll have forgotten all about it.’

‘Damn shame,’ I said. ‘She’s extraordinarily talented.’