July 17, 2024

Here is the first past of a mystery I published in an anthology last year. Stay tuned here to read the next installment. &&&&&&&&& I first met Mildred when she moved into my room at the Rest Easy Retirement Home. My former roommate had died in her sleep, as had many others, which is why no one rested easy here and why we called it God’s Waiting Room. Coughs, whoops, shuffling, wails, music and TV chatter filled the place every day – all of which permeated the any discussions by those of us still mentally capable of it.     Two days after my roommate died, Nurse Wretched, an ascetic busybody named Norma, who slinked around in a white uniform and rubber soled, silent shoes, wheeled in my new roomie saying, “Isn’t this nice! Miriam, this is Mildred Wrightnour. Mildred, this is Miriam Gardner. The sun is shining and it’s warm today, so why don’t the two of you sit out in the sun room and get to know each other.” Mildred had to be in her eighties, with a cap of short white hair, a pleasantly round face with a sharp nose, and so thin two of her could have fit in the wheel chair. She wore a cobalt blue blouse that set off her hair. I wondered what she thought of me, a definite mesomorph with a long white braid, wire-rimmed glasses, and wearing sweat pants.    I looked at Mildred with suspicion. This was my third roommate, and I wondered if she were healthy. “Hi Mildred. Where you from?”    “Just outside of Boston. You?”  She smiled.    I like her immediately. Spare with her words. “A Southie,” I replied.    She nodded at my mention of South Boston. Tony, one of two Irish aides who worked out regularly to maintain his admirable muscle development, came in and deposited Mildred’s suitcases on her freshly made bed. Then he and Norma left us alone.     “Can I help you unpack?” I asked. “That dresser over there is yours.” I bit my tongue not to say, “Still warm from the last resident.” I opened the dresser drawers while she unzipped the suitcases. “You need help in and out of your wheelchair?”     “I’m not that decrepit yet. Just can’t walk long distances. Bad hip. I’ll be fine.” She stood easily and began putting away underwear, nightgowns, and sweaters. She placed three pictures on her dresser along with a comb, brush and a bag of bathroom necessities. “Not much to show for a lifetime, is it?” she commented.     “Nope, but it keeps things simple.” I saw her unpack a Swiss Army knife. “What do you plan to use that for?”     “This? It’s really handy – comes with a nail file, scissors, and this…” She pulled out the corkscrew and winked.     “Just the thing. I’ve been wanting to smuggle in some wine.”     Mildred looked puzzled. “How can you do that?”     “Tony. He’s bribable.”     With the unpacking over, Mildred wheeled herself down the hall to the sun room, pulling up next to a padded chair where I plopped myself down.     “I hear there’s a loudspeaker?” she asked.     “Oh, that bloody thing. It gets us up at 7 AM – don’t think about sleeping in – and announces all meals ten minutes before they serve. Also lights out at 10 PM. It’s like a frigging boot camp.”     She waved her hand in front of her face. “Good Lord, I feel like I’m in a hothouse in here. Can we go outside to chat?”     “They keep it warm because they’re certain we all grew up on the equator. And we need permission to go outside. They have to know where you are at all times.”     “Really? How about an escape? Ever made one?”     I liked this Mildred more and more. Finally, someone with a personality on my wave length. “All the time, because I’m one of the few truly mobile inmates. That door over there leads to a patio. Let’s go.” I checked my watch. “Lots of time before lunch to break some rules.”     When we got outside, I took a deep breath. “Thank God. Smells like eau-de-old-people and Lysol in there. I can’t stand it.”     Over the next hour or so, we talked about our past lives – she, an instructor at Boston University and I, a secretary in my husband’s law firm. Both of us widowed more than ten years earlier. She told me they were nearly broke when her husband died. She didn’t say it, but I got the impression he committed suicide. Her children and grandchildren were the light in her life.     “They visit you much?” I asked.     She looked down. “Not much.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “They’re busy with their own lives.” Her face brightened. “One of my granddaughters and I are good buddies, though, and she told me this place is on a bus line, so maybe I’ll see her more often. How about you?’     “No kids. Ben never wanted them, selfish bastard.”     “I take it you had an unhappy marriage?”     “Only when he was around.”     I think she realized from my facial expression I wouldn’t say more on that, because she then asked, “What do you do for fun around here?”     “Eat, read, knit, crochet, play card games, watch TV. An exercise program in the common room every day. And music. It’s so god-damn boring. Did you hear the noise from room 208 this morning when you came in?”     “Romeo and Juliet by Beethoven? That’s not noise – it’s music!”     “Well, look at you, all classical.  Be that as it may, that music used to go on all day and half the night until we gave Nurse Wretched an ultimatum: either shut it down at a reasonable hour or we would riot.”     She chuckled. “You must mean Norma. So who