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“Hey, Holly, this is Shauna. Dad’s in the hospital. He had a relapse. Goddam Covid won’t let him go.”
He said he was feeling stronger every day, Holly thinks. Like the Chicago song.
“He tried to take a bag of trash down to the garbage chute. Fainted in the hall. Mrs. Lothrop found him and called 911. I’ve been with him all night. No heart attack, no goddam ventilator, thank Christ for that. He seems better this morning, but I guess he might be one of those goddam long haulers. They’re going to run some tests and then send him home. They need the room. This fucking shit’s everywhere. You better take care of yourse—” That’s where the message ends.
Holly feels like throwing her phone across the room. It is, as Shauna Huntley might say, a goddam bad way to start a goddam day. She remembers Althea Haverty at the bowling alley talking about fake flu and looking at Holly’s offered elbow with mild contempt. Saying no offense, but I don’t do that. Holly doesn’t wish her in the hospital with an oxygen mask clamped over her fat Covid-denying face, but—
Actually she does.
3
Holly drives through Burger King for breakfast, wearing a fresh pair of gloves to pay at one window and pick up her food at the next. She eats in her room, checks out, then sets off for Rolling Hills Elder Care. She gets there still too early for visiting hours, so she parks, opens her door, and smokes a cigarette. She texts Barbara, asking what she meant by which one. She gets no reply, didn’t expect one, doesn’t really need one. Barb must have recognized Rodney Harris as well as Cary Dressler. Holly is very curious about how she met Professor Harris. One thing she knows for sure is that the idea of Barbara anywhere near Harris makes her uneasy.
She googles Professor Rodney Harris and gets all sorts of information, including pictures of a younger version with dark hair and only a few lines and wrinkles. She googles Professor Emily Harris and gets another info-drop, confirming what Keisha said. Bonnie knew Emily Harris. Worked for Emily Harris, in fact.
Rodney knew Cary Dressler. Didn’t smoke dope with him, but did bowl with him when the Golden Oldies needed a sub.
Rodney could have known Ellen Craslow. Could have chatted her up, in fact; they worked in the same building and according to Keisha Stone, the woman was not averse to conversation.
She texts Barbara again, this time being more specific: Is it Rodney Harris you recognized? Have you met him? I know you’re busy but let me know when you can.
She checks her watch and sees that it’s nine AM. Visiting hours have officially begun. She doesn’t expect to get anything new from Victor Anderson (if she gets anything at all), and she knows damn well she won’t get anything from Uncle Henry, but she’s here now, so she might as well go ahead. She can be done by ten, check in with Pete, then get on the road back to the city. Will she stop to talk with Ernie Coggins? She might, but she’s leaning against.
All signs point to the Harrises.
4
Holly goes to the front desk and states who she wants to visit. The woman on desk duty, Mrs. Norman, checks her computer and makes a brief call. She says Henry Sirois is currently having a sponge bath and getting his hair clipped. Victor Anderson is in the sunroom, and although he’s alert and aware, he’s very hard to understand. If Holly would like to wait a bit, his wife usually comes in shortly after visiting hours begin, and she understands him perfectly.
“Evelyn is a jewel,” Mrs. Norman says.
Holly agrees to wait for Anderson’s wife, because she’s had an idea. It’s probably a bad one, but it’s the only one she has. Her partner is in the hospital, Jerome is in New York, and Barbara is occupied with her dying friend. Even if she were not, Holly wouldn’t ask for her help. Not after Chet Ondowsky.
She boots up her iPad and looks at pictures of 93 Ridge Road, both on Zillow (where the Zestimate is $1.7 million) and on Google Street View. She’s seen the house; what she wants now is a look at the garage, but she’s disappointed. The driveway dips down and she can only see the roof. Enlarging the picture doesn’t help. Too bad.
A slim woman comes in—white slacks, white lowtop sneakers, white hair in a fashionable pixie cut—and approaches Mrs. Norman. They speak, and Mrs. Norman points to where Holly is sitting. Holly gets up, introduces herself, and holds her elbow out. Mrs. Anderson—Evelyn—gives it a tap and asks how she can help.
“I’d like to ask your husband a few questions. A very few, if it won’t tire him out. I’m investigating the disappearance of someone who used to work at the Strike Em Out Lanes—Cary Dressler. I understand Mr. Anderson sometimes bowled with him. Mrs. Norman said you could… well…”
“Translate?” Mrs. Anderson says with a smile. “Yes, I can do that. I never met Mr. Dressler, but I know who he is. Vic said he was an excellent bowler, and a nice fellow. Called him a mensch.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I think they sometimes went out back to smoke pot.”
“So I’ve heard,” Holly whispers back.
“Do you suspect… gasp… foul play?” Evelyn is still smiling behind her mask.
Holly, who suspects exactly that, says she’s only trying to find out where he went.
“Well, come on,” Evelyn Anderson says cheerfully. “I doubt if he can help you, but his mind is as clear as ever and it will do him good to see a new face.”
5
In the sunroom, a few old people are eating late breakfasts or having it fed to them. An episode of Mayberry R.F.D. is on the big-screen TV, laugh-track cackling away. Victor Anderson is sitting in a wheelchair that’s turned away from the TV so he can look out at the lawn, where a man on a riding lawnmower is cutting the grass. Anderson is actually two men, Holly sees, built like a longshoreman from shoulders to waist, broad shoulders and thick chest. Below those are pipestem legs ending in bare feet that are blotched with eczema. Anderson has an N95 mask, but it’s pulled down around his neck.
Evelyn says, “Hi there, handsome, want a date?”
He looks around, and Holly sees half of his face is drawn down in a stressful grimace that shows his teeth on the left side. The right side of his face tries to smile. He says, “Hi… yooful.”
Evelyn ruffles his iron gray hair and kisses his cheek. “I brought you company. This lady is Holly Gibney. She wants to ask you a few questions about your bowling career. Is that okay?”
