My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

26.

In the quest to develop my softer side, I abandon my usual political tomes and biographies in favor of novel reading. My inspiration: the study finding that literary fiction fans possess higher levels of empathy. What better place to start than the collected works of Sexy Eyes, better known to readers as Charles Kittredge?

Though I’m tempted to begin with Bicoastal, Charlie’s biggest bestseller and box office smash, I approach his books in chronological order. His first novel is Change/Of Course, the title being a double entendre that alludes both to a change of navigational direction and the certainty that change is inevitable. This book is unique among Charlie’s works in its use of magical realism. Set in the Northeast over a ten-year span ending with 2001 – or to be more specific, with the events of 9/11 – the world it portrays is familiar and realistic but for one thing; the protagonists, a brother and sister growing up in rural Pennsylvania, possess powers that enable them to change events. Such a rare gift is no guarantee of omnipotence, however. Whenever they experience negative emotions such as jealousy, rage, or a lust for revenge, the boy and girl lose their powers, like Superman weakening under exposure to kryptonite. The siblings cannot perform good deeds in a vacuum. Positive change can only be achieved through inner purity of thought and conscience.

Though it is on one level a morality tale, Change/Of Course has a fast-paced plot and characters I fall in love with, adding up to an intoxicating read, even for a rookie like me. Major book reviewers praised it as a “stunning debut” and “a richly textured examination of motivation, self-control, and the sometimes blurry distinction that exists between good and evil.” I’m not sure what I expected Charlie’s books to be like, but this isn’t it. However, I’m not disappointed. And from what I’ve been reading about Charlie’s career, I can anticipate a different experience reading his next novel and his next one after that.

Though I did my research on Charlie back when we first dated, this time my information source is not some scholarly essay but the Charles Kittredge entry in Wikipedia. One characteristic that makes Charlie popular with critics, I read, is his successful experimentation with different themes, genres, and literary styles. While perusing the Wikipedia to refresh my memory on Charlie’s accomplishments as a novelist and review his book list, I jump down to the section on “Personal Life.” It mentions his late wife, Elizabeth, and says only that she “died suddenly,” along with the month and year of her death – but no further details. No other wives, no other partners, no children.

I traverse Change/Of Course from cover to cover in two days, and when I put it down, I float around my living room, giddy with exhilaration. To think that I had intimate knowledge of the author! I remember how it began as an idle infatuation with those sultry gray eyes and later blossomed into a deeper admiration of his fun spirit and – let’s be honest, the real draw up till now – his delightful physicality. Now, I’m no longer enchanted by the body as much as the body of work. Now, I’m captivated by those “richly textured” sentences that grace every page, and by the imaginative mind that has created them. Now, I’m—but wait. There is no more now for us as a couple. The exhilaration vanishes as I crash back down to reality.

How did I fail to appreciate Charlie’s exceptional qualities? What a catch! I could’ve had all of him to myself – body, mind, and soul. Instead, I wantonly discarded his affections like an angler tossing an undersized game fish back into the water. I remember he once told me, “There are little pieces of me in everything I write.” Having let him go, now I will troll through the pages of his novels, casting my net to try to capture some of those little pieces of Charlie for myself.

Now, that’s all of him that is left to me.

Though I’m tempted to dive right into Charlie’s second novel, the much-lauded Bicoastal, I tear myself away to devote a little time to the Nancy Ostrowski situation. I leave a phone message for her lawyer, who returns my call within a couple of hours. It’s clear from our conversation that the lawyer has great fondness for Nancy and is distressed at the news of her mental decline – which, as I’d surmised, must be a recent development. “I haven’t spoken to Nancy in a few months,” he says, “but last time I called her, she sounded coherent. She told me she was paying all the bills and that she’d begun sorting through John’s belongings to donate to charities.”

“That may be true, but she’s done nothing in the study except make a mess,” I say. “I wonder what else she might be forgetting, like important medications.” I ask him about close relatives, including the Ostrowski names I copied from the address book I found in the desk.

“Those are both nephews of John’s from the Midwest,” says the lawyer, “but Nancy’s closest living blood relation is a niece who lives north of Santa Barbara. Her mother was Nancy’s older sister, who I believe died several years ago.”

“How can I reach her?”

“I’m not permitted to give out contact information, but I’ll call her right away and ask her to get in touch with you. If you haven’t heard from her in a day or two, let me know and I’ll make sure you two connect.” The lawyer also promises to call Nancy’s financial advisor to make sure there are sufficient funds in the checking account to cover the bills. Before hanging up, he says, “Thank you for alerting me to the situation and for looking after Nancy so well. She’s lucky to have you.”

That evening I get a call from the niece, who had been waiting to return home from her job as a schoolteacher before phoning me. Her voice trembles with worry. “Is Aunt Nancy all right? I was so alarmed when the lawyer called me at school today.”

“She’s all right—I mean, apart from the memory issues.”

“Do you think she’s frightened or upset?”

“Not that I can tell. She seems to be in good spirits. Not exactly the grieving widow. She keeps saying the world is a better place without John.”

“Amen to that,” says the niece. “My mother couldn’t stand that man. She used to beg Nancy to leave him. They didn’t have to stay together for the children, since they never had any. But Aunt Nancy was always meek and retiring. I don’t think she had the courage to stand up to him.”

“I know, and she regrets it now.”

“Do you think she needs to be in a home or something?”

“Oh no, she isn’t that bad. If you catch her on a good day, you might not even suspect anything is wrong. But I think she could use a part-time caregiver. Someone to help with errands and make sure she’s getting proper meals, taking her meds, that sort of thing.”

“Makes sense, though I’ll still need to find a way to pay her bills.”

“I can help with that until you find a more permanent solution,” I say.

“That’s kind of you, but I don’t want to impose on you for long. Once I get down there and make copies of all her invoices, I can set up online bill pay for her and manage it from my computer.” She sighs. “But with the new school year, things are so busy I don’t think I can make it down to LA for a week or ten days. Unless it’s absolutely urgent . . . is it?” she asks.

“No. I don’t think she’s in any danger. And I promise to check on her again in the next day or two.”

“Oh, she’s lucky to have you as a friend.” This is the second time in a day I’ve been rewarded with this unaccustomed compliment. “Any idea how I might find a caregiver in the area?”

“That isn’t my field of expertise,” I say, “but I promise to put out feelers.”

The first call is to my formerly homeless friend Sunny. “How’s life in Northern California?” I ask.

“It’s good. My job at the day spa is going well. And living in my cousin’s guesthouse has given me a chance to pay down my debts.”

We spend a few minutes catching up on recent events, and I tell her about Nancy. “I remember you said your mother suffered from Alzheimer’s, so I thought you might know of a caregiver.”

She sighs into the phone. “Sorry, but no one I can recommend. The woman who took care of Mother turned kind of nasty when I cut her hours back to save money, and things between us didn’t end on a good note. I was partly to blame, but still . . .”

“I understand. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.” We chat for a few minutes longer before I wish her well, and we both promise to do a better job of keeping in touch. Then I place another call.

“Mar—it’s good to hear from you.”

“Hello, Grace. You can call me Margaret.”

“Oh, I thought—never mind. How’s everything going with you?”

“Much better, thanks for asking. No more aches and pains. And you?”

“I’m fine. Did you get your new car?”

“I did. I’m the proud owner of a shiny new Prius, and it has a few bells and whistles that the old model didn’t have.”

“Thank you again for the flowers,” she says, referring to a bouquet of summer blooms I sent her in thanks for her help after the accident. “It was unnecessary, but much appreciated.”

“Glad you liked them. I’m calling for a professional reason as well.” I tell her about Mrs. Ostrowski and my discussion with the niece. “She doesn’t know how to go about finding a reliable home health aide, and I’m in no position to advise her, but I thought you might have some ideas.”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me about this,” she says.

For a moment I think she’s rebuking me. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to impose.”

“Oh, you’re not imposing at all. I meant I can’t believe the timing. Last week, the man I’d been working for took a turn for the worse. He had to go into a nursing home. It happens I’m available. If Nancy and her niece approve, I’d be interested in applying for the job.”

I pour myself a glass of chilled Sancerre to celebrate the hope that Nancy Ostrowski will receive the care she needs and deserves. I’ll call the niece back and connect her with Grace, then I’ll make a date with Nancy. When I visit, I’ll sit her down and explain what a nice woman Grace is and how much help she can provide. I don’t think Nancy will resent the interference, but I’ll have to be careful how I position it. I make a mental note to discuss all this with the niece to be certain we’re on the same page.

I’ve had a few sips of my wine when my cellphone rings and Nancy’s name comes up on the caller ID. “Nancy, hi. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, dear. But can you come over?”

“You mean—now?”

“Oh, I think it’s a bit late for that, but how about tomorrow? There’s something important I need you to see.”

. . .

When I knock on her front door the following afternoon, Nancy is not the least bit baffled by my arrival this time. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, ushering me in. “Can I get you an Arnold Palmer? I polished off the rum, but I could mix it with vodka for you. Or maybe plain iced tea?”

The lemonade, tea, and rum cocktail she served up on my previous visit was delectable, but I don’t want to be distracted from my purpose. “Plain tea is fine,” I say.

“I’ll get it in a bit. But first . . .” She digs an ancient, tarnished key out of her pocket and thrusts it in front of my face, so close to my eyes that it’s a blur, like Benny’s wrinkled fingertips at the pool. “Look what I found.”

“A key to . . . what?”

“John’s workshop, in the shed behind the house. He didn’t allow me to go in there. He called it his private man space or something like that.”

“Man cave?”

“Yes, maybe that was it. Anyway, after he passed, I tried to go back there to clean it out, but the door was padlocked. I forgot all about it until yesterday, when I found a few loose keys in the desk drawer. I tried them on the lock to the workshop door, and voila. This one opened it right up.” She flashes a satisfied smile. “Follow me,” she says, and we walk around back. When we reach the shed, she turns the key in the padlock and opens the door with a dramatic flourish, like a magician showing her most impressive trick. “Tada,” she says, observing my reaction.

I always thought the term “jaw-dropping” was a figurative expression, but I think my jaw literally falls a few inches upon seeing what Mrs. O. has revealed. I stand there agape as I stare in disbelief at . . .

. . . Michael’s bicycle. The notorious red bike from sixteen years ago. It’s still red and—impossible as it seems—still shiny. In case there was any doubt about its identity, the little personalized license plate hangs from the back. “It isn’t even dusty,” I say. “How is that possible?”

“I cleaned it and polished it all up for you.” Her entire face glows with pride. “But I’m afraid I couldn’t fix the tires,” she says, pointing to the two flats.

“I thought your husband gave the bike away.”

“I thought so too. That’s what he told me.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he keep it hidden here all these years? Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

“Oh, Margaret,” she says, shaking her head, “you have no idea.”

“I think I can squeeze it into my Prius if I put the back seat down. You meant for me to take it, right?”

“Oh yes, and give it to Michael, of course. Imagine how surprised he’ll be.”

He will be, indeed. But it won’t be the reaction of a gleeful child celebrating the return of his most prized possession. It’s many years too late for that. What will Michael’s reaction be? Knowing him, he might be chagrined or even embarrassed to be caught out in the lie he told us long ago when he pretended the bike was stolen. But this time, I won’t let the negative thoughts take over. Somehow, I must show him that the recovery of his old bike can serve as a bridge between us, a way to heal old wounds and allow us to behave in a kinder fashion toward one another going forward.

I can’t expect Nancy to understand all this, but now that I’ve gotten over the initial shock, I share her enthusiasm over finding the bike. “Thank you, Nancy. This means a lot.”

She beams back at me. “I know you didn’t believe my story the other day,” she says with a wink. “You thought I had it all mixed up about John taking the bike. I don’t blame you for thinking that. I get confused about little things sometimes. But my recall is good.”

I nod. I have to concede, she is much brighter and sharper today.

“I remember meals I ate forty years ago. In 1980, John took me to New York City for our anniversary. Have I told you this?”

I shake my head no.

“We went to a Belgian restaurant in the east fifties. We both ordered the house special for lunch – rotisserie chicken, which they served with a big pewter bucket of frites. The potatoes were the crispy, shoestring kind.” She smiles at the recollection. “Those were the best fries I ever ate in my life.”

Smiling back at her, I wonder if I’ve overreacted about her memory issues. “Speaking of lunch, are you hungry?” I say. “Or have you already eaten?”

“Yes. I ate . . . I ate . . .” The happy expression fades and her jaw trembles a little. “I’m not sure I even ate lunch at all.” She rushes toward the kitchen, flitting around the room and peeking here and there as if on a treasure hunt. In the kitchen sink, she finds an empty can of chicken noodle soup, a bowl, and a spoon. “I must have had this soup,” she says. “The evidence is right in front of me. But I can’t remember it.” Her face falls. “I can’t remember it at all.”

Poor Nancy. I walk over and fold my arms around her. “It’s okay. We’re gonna get you some help so you don’t have to worry about these things.”

“Promise?” Her voice is soft and childlike.

“I promise.” And though I know it’s a lie, I say, “Everything is going to be all right.”