Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

Solana parked the car and rechecked the ad in the “Personals,” making sure the address was correct. There was no phone number listed, which was just as well. The last classified ad she’d responded to had been a dead end. The patient was an elderly woman living in her daughter’s house, confined to a hospital bed that had been installed in the dining room. The house was lovely, but the makeshift sick bay ruined the overall effect. High ceilings, light pouring in, all the furnishings done in exquisite taste. There was a cook and a housekeeper on the premises, and that put a damper on Solana’s enthusiasm.

Solana was interviewed by the daughter, who wanted someone to attend to her mother’s needs but felt she shouldn’t be required to pay private-duty rates since she would be present in the home as well. Solana would be expected to bathe, feed, and diaper the senile mother, change linens, do her laundry, and administer medication. These were responsibilities she was capable of handling, but she didn’t like the daughter’s attitude. She seemed to view a nursing professional as a household servant, on a par with a laundress. Solana suspected that the housekeeper would be treated better than she.

The haughty daughter made notes on her clipboard notepad and said she had several other job applicants to interview, which Solana knew was a bald-faced lie. The daughter wanted her to feel competitive, as though she’d be fortunate to be offered the position, which consisted of nine-hour days, one day off a week, and no personal calls. She’d be allowed two fifteen-minute coffee breaks, but she was expected to provide her own meals. And with a cook working right there in the next room!

Solana asked a good many questions, showing how interested she was, making sure the daughter spelled out particulars. In the end she agreed to everything, including the low wages. The daughter’s manner went from cold to prim to pleased with herself. It was clear she felt smug for having talked someone into accepting such ridiculous terms. Solana noticed there was no further mention of the other candidates.

She explained she didn’t have time just then to do the paperwork, but she’d bring the completed application with her when she came to work the next morning at eight. She jotted down her phone number in case the daughter thought of anything else she wanted to discuss. By the time Solana left, the daughter was falling all over herself, relieved that she’d managed to solve her problem at so little cost. She shook Solana’s hand warmly. Solana returned to her car, knowing she’d never see the woman again. The phone number she’d provided rang through to the psychiatric ward in a Perdido hospital, where Tiny had once spent a year.

Now Solana sat across the street and a few doors down from the address she’d been looking for. This was in response to an ad she’d seen over the weekend. She’d dismissed the possibility at first since there wasn’t a telephone number listed. As the week went on and no other jobs of interest appeared, she’d decided the house might be worth a quick look. The setting didn’t seem promising. The place had a neglected air, especially compared with the other houses on the block. The neighborhood was close to the beach and consisted almost entirely of single-family dwellings. Sandwiched here and there, between the small depressing houses, she could see a new duplex or fourplex in the Spanish-style architecture common to the area. Solana’s guess was that many of the residents were retired, which meant fixed incomes and little in the way of discretionary spending.

To all appearances, she was of a similar economic status. Two months before, one of her brothers had given her a banged-up convertible he was eager to junk. The car she’d been driving had thrown a rod, and the mechanic told her the repair bill would be two thousand dollars, which was more than the car was worth. At the time, she had no cash to spare, and when her brother offered her the 1972 Chevrolet, she’d accepted-though not without a certain sense of humiliation. Clearly, he thought the junker was good enough for her. She’d had her eye on a better car and she’d even been tempted to take on the hefty payments, but good sense prevailed. Now she was grateful she’d settled for the secondhand Chevrolet, which resembled so many other cars parked along the street. A newer model would have sent the wrong message. No one was interested in hiring help who appeared to be more prosperous than they.

So far she had no information about the patient beyond the brief clues in the ad. It was good he was eighty-nine years old and tottery enough to fall and hurt himself. His need for outside help suggested there weren’t any close relatives willing to pitch in. These days, people were self-centered-impatient about anything that interfered with their own comfort or convenience. From her perspective, this was good. From the patient’s, not so much. If he were surrounded by loving kids and grandkids, he’d be no use to her at all.

What worried her was his ability to pay for the in-home care. She couldn’t bill through Medicare or Medicaid because she’d never survive official scrutiny, and the chances of his having adequate private insurance didn’t look good. So many of the elderly made no provision for long-term disability. They drifted into their twilight years as though by mistake, surprised to discover themselves with limited resources, unable to cover the monstrous medical bills that accrued in the wake of acute, chronic, or catastrophic illness. Did they think the necessary funds would fall from the sky? Who did they imagine would shoulder the burden for their lack of planning? Fortunately, the last patient she’d taken on had ample means, which Solana had put to good use. The job had ended on a sour note, but she’d learned a valuable lesson. The mistake she’d made there was one she wouldn’t make again.

She debated the wisdom of inquiring about a job in such a modest neighborhood, but finally decided she could at least knock on the door and introduce herself. Since she’d driven in from Colgate, she might as well explore the possibility. She knew certain wealthy types took pride in maintaining a humble facade. This fellow might be one. Just two days before, she’d read an article in the paper about an elderly woman who’d died and left two million dollars to an animal shelter, of all things. Friends and neighbors had been stunned because the woman had lived like a pauper, and no one suspected she had so much money tucked away. Her prime concern was for her six ancient cats, which the estate attorney had ordered euthanized before the woman was even cold in her grave. This freed up thousands of dollars to pay the subsequent legal bills.

Solana checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She was wearing her new glasses, a cheap pair she’d found that were a close match to the glasses on the Other’s driver’s license. With her hair dyed dark, the resemblance between them was passable. Her own face was thinner, but she wasn’t worried about that. Anyone comparing her face to the photo would simply think she’d lost weight. The dress she’d chosen for the occasion was a crisply ironed cotton that made a comforting rustling sound when she walked. It wasn’t a uniform per se, but it had the same simple lines and it smelled of spray starch. The only jewelry she wore was a watch with big numbers on the face and a sweeping second hand. A watch like that implied a quick and professional attention to vital signs. She took out her compact and powdered her nose. She looked good. Her complexion was clear and she liked her hair in this new darker shade. She tucked her compact away, satisfied that she looked the part-faithful companion to the old. She got out of her car and locked it behind her, then crossed the street.