Marcia Talley - Tomorrow's Vengeance

‘I don’t see Frank in the garden today. I wonder where he is?’

Nancy tapped the glass. ‘He likes it there.’

‘Where?’ I asked her. ‘By the cherry tree?’

‘No, the liriodendron tulipifera .’

‘Ah, the tulip poplar. Does he stand there often, Frank, I mean?’

‘It is what it is,’ she said cryptically. Suddenly she turned to me, her eyes wide and wild. ‘Where’s Frank?’

I reached out and patted her hand. Poor Nancy. If Jerry wasn’t where she could actually see him it was as if ‘Frank’ had vanished. Although sometimes yesterday made an appearance, tomorrow, tonight, this afternoon, soon… those concepts seemed foreign to her. ‘You ate breakfast with Frank,’ I fibbed, and hated myself for doing it. ‘He’s probably in the bathroom.’

‘It’s not fair,’ she said after a moment.

‘What’s not fair?’

‘If she can have a boyfriend, I can have a boyfriend!’

‘She?’

‘That cheerleader. Think’s she’s so smart!’ Nancy drew out the ‘O’ in so, turning it into four syllables – O-O-O-O – wagging her head from side to side as she spoke.

I decided to wait her out. After a bit, she said, ‘It’s not allowed, you know. Teachers aren’t supposed to mess around with students.’

‘So, you saw a teacher messing around with a cheerleader?’

‘Oh, yes, I certainly did.’

‘What does the cheerleader look like?’ I asked, not really hoping for an answer that would make any sense.

‘I see her all the time, that blonde,’ Nancy said. ‘“Only her hairdresser knows for sure!”’ she sing-songed. ‘Bitch.’

Somewhere in Nancy’s past a cheerleader had done her wrong, and she wasn’t about to forget it.

‘Where do you see the cheerleader?’ I asked, hoping to get her back on track.

‘She has a board job. In the dining hall. At least I don’t have to wait tables.’ She gave me a slow wink. ‘My father is very rich.’

So, Nancy was back in college. I’d waited tables at Oberlin College – Dascomb Hall, if you’d like to know – and I’d often felt looked down upon by the more privileged few. Oh, the tricks I played when they got my goat! Maybe Nancy’s cheerleader had done the same to her.

‘She was supposed to be working, but no, she was having sex. And I know sex when I see it,’ Nancy said dreamily.

It wasn’t Jerry having sex with a pretty blonde in the garden, I knew, but someone Nancy thought looked like Jerry. Masud Abaza? ‘The man from the garden,’ she had said when Masud’s picture had popped up on the television screen. And unless I was mistaken, the only person working the dining room who would qualify as a cheerleader waiting tables was our own young blonde, Filomena.

Were Masud and Filomena having an affair, improbable though it may seem? Or was it some other transaction altogether? Whatever, Detective Powers needed to know.

When Detective Powers finally returned my call, I shared my suspicions with him and got the detective’s equivalent of ‘thank you for sharing.’

‘You’re not listening to me, Detective Powers.’

‘I am. The question is, where’s your proof?’

‘Nancy Harper saw Masud and Filomena together in the garden.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you referring to the Nancy Harper who is a patient in the dementia unit?’

‘Well, yes, but just because you have dementia doesn’t mean you’re blind. She’s forgetful, not blind.’

Powers snorted. ‘Even a public defender fresh out of law school would make mincemeat out of her testimony, even assuming she was judged competent to take the stand in the first place, which I doubt.’

‘She drew a picture of what she saw, Detective. She’s an accomplished artist.’

‘Mrs Ives.’ He paused. ‘I could draw a picture of Hilary Clinton having sex with the Jolly Green Giant, but that doesn’t mean it actually happened.’

‘Right.’ I hung up, thinking I’d have to go to Plan B.

Whatever Plan B was.

‘In compliance with the order of the Fuehrer for protection of Jewish cultural possesions, a great number of Jewish dwellings remained unguarded. Consequently, many furnishings have disappeared… In the whole East, the administration has found terrible conditions of living quarters, and the chances of procurement are so limited that it is not practical to procure any more. Therefore, I beg the Fuehrer to permit the seizure of all Jewish home furnishings of Jews in Paris, who have fled, or will leave shortly, and that of Jews living in all parts of the occupied West, to relieve the shortage of furnishings in the administration in the East.’

Albert Rosenberg, Secret Documentary Memorandum for the Fürhrer, Berlin, 18 December, 1941.

It took a couple of days to arrange everything to my satisfaction.

In the meantime, I continued to eat lunch in the dining room with Naddie, fury bubbling up in me, white and hot, as Filomena flitted from table to table, smiling and greeting residents as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Here she comes,’ Naddie whispered. ‘It’s showtime.’

When the hostess was within earshot, I leaned over the portfolio I’d spread out on the table between us and said, ‘Look, Naddie, aren’t they amazing?’

Naddie leafed through the drawings with deliberate care, pausing to examine each in turn, sometimes holding one up to the light that cascaded from the chandelier.

‘Nancy doesn’t recognize her family,’ I nattered on, ‘but when it comes to drawing her mind’s as sharp as ever.’

‘Stunning!’ Naddie agreed. ‘I wonder where she trained?’ She tapped the drawing on the table in front of her. ‘I like this one very much.’

‘It’s the tulip poplar in the Tranquility Garden,’ I told her. ‘And here’s a nice one of the garden gate.’ I chuckled. ‘What else to do when you look out your window all day?’

‘Makes me want to hang up my paint brush,’ Naddie complained.

‘Fat chance,’ I said. I scrabbled among the drawings until I found the one of Nancy’s dog. ‘She draws from memory with incredible accuracy. Look at this! It’s her dog, Rosco. According to the nurse in the memory unit, Nancy had Rosco as a child over sixty years ago.’

Naddie studied me over the top of her reading glasses. ‘Are there more? We should definitely include some of Nancy’s work in the art show this coming fall.’

‘She’s got a whole portfolio in her room.’

As we talked I kept one eye on Filomena, who was fussing with the napkins on an adjoining table, folding and refolding. ‘Filomena!’ I called, waving her over. ‘Take a look at Nancy’s drawings. Aren’t they wonderful?’ I pawed through the pile, selected one of the tulip poplar and handed it to her.

‘Lovely,’ Filomena said, handing the drawing back. ‘It’s too bad she’s…’ Filomena tapped her temple. ‘You know.’

‘A shame,’ I agreed. ‘But music and art can unlock the most amazing memories, even in patients with advanced Alzheimer’s disease.’ I grinned up at her. ‘You’ve heard Nancy play the piano. It’s as if she’s young again.’

Filomena smiled then bowed slightly. ‘You must excuse me now, ladies, but I have work to do. Susanna will come by in a moment to take your order.’

Naddie and I inhaled our Caesar salads while tag-teaming Filomena to make sure she didn’t slip away. I skipped dessert and hurried back to the memory unit while Naddie went off in the opposite direction to play her part.

In Nancy’s darkened room, lying in her bed with a blanket pulled up to my chin, I sensed, rather than saw someone open the door and slip in. While I held my breath and counted to twelve the figure stood quietly at the foot of the bed, then turned toward the coffee table where I’d carefully arranged Nancy’s portfolio so that it was clearly illuminated by the single bulb of her Tiffany-style floor lamp.