Without Trace Page 5

  As she wrapped up, Willie noticed that Glyn had entered the room. As he hovered near the doorway, a small and very tidy lady came up to Willie and asked. “Why are you reading this book to us? You know that Little Britches’ dad is going to die in the end.”

  Willie smiled. She had anticipated this feeling but assumed it would not be asked out-loud. “Well Pauline, Dad may die, but what is happening for the whole family in the meantime?”

  “They’re just hard scrabbling to create a ranch. That’s no life.”

  By this time, one or two others hovered nearby, curious.

  “Does Little Britches have any advantages in his life?” Willie asked.

  “He’s got nothing,” Pauline said. “That boy is from the lowest of the lowest.”

  Others nodded their heads. But one asked, “What boy are they talking about?”

  “Our book kid. That Britches kid,” someone answered.

  “How are you measuring low and high, Pauline?” Willie asked.

  “He doesn’t have enough food. His dad is sick. His mom has to work all the time, and his sisters are pests.”

  Willie took out a sheet of pink paper and began writing in big letters.

  “Here is what I’d like you to do for us all, Pauline,” and Willie turned to the others, “Any of you can think about this with us. My question is, ‘What does Little Britches have that we all need?’ Tomorrow, let’s talk about the answers you think of.”

  A couple of people started to answer her, but she stood from her reading chair, and said, “I’m leaving the question on your bulletin board here. If you want, you can write your answers on the sheet with the question. Let’s talk before we read tomorrow.”

  She shoved her walker toward the bulletin board near the coffee urn and pinned her pink question at about head height. The friends in the area followed her there and began re-reading the question.

  “I’ll see you all tomorrow at 11 a.m.”

  Willie pushed her walker toward Glyn and the doorway.

  “Getting hungry?”

  “No. Well, yes. Always. But I wanted to tell you that Geneva has been in your apartment.”

  “Well, that’s not a total surprise. She comes in to water my plants when I’m away on a trip. Maybe she thinks I’m gone.”

  “Come see what I have seen,” he said.

  As Willie started out the door, she noticed that Don Corrigan followed her. “Mr. Corrigan, what can I do for you?”

  He stopped, looked at his shoes, and said, “I’m just going downstairs.”

  “Don’t you live in this floor?” Willie asked. She knew that Alzheimer’s residents were not supposed to leave their floor for fear they might get lost.

  “No, I live on the eighth floor, but I’m going down to the dining room and library floor.”

  Glyn frowned at his Grandma, and started to hurry her to the elevator, but she went on talking to Don. “Mr. Corrigan, I need to stop by the desk here, you go on and use the elevator. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Don Corrigan fiddled with his pocket change for a moment and then moved on down the hall.

  “Grandma . . .”

  “Young man, I think it is best if you call me Mrs. Stamps while we are at Holly Hill. That way no one can accuse you of getting your job by nepotism and they won’t look too closely into where you presently live.”

  “Sure, okay, but we ought to catch the elevator, so I can show you what she’s been up to.”

  “We will not catch the elevator with other people and talk about Geneva. She has enough detractors.”

  Glyn started toward the stairs, saying, “By the way Grandma, nepotism has everything to do with my presence here, and you know it. In fact, everybody knows it. Let’s be up front about that.”

  **

  Willie had discovered from the Alzheimer’s Unit head attendant that Don Corrigan really did live on the eighth floor. She wondered why he came to the Alzheimer unit and flattered herself with the idea that he liked the story she had picked out.

  When the elevator came back, she entered the elevator, and found Rolly Goforth already inside. And, as is the way of big men, he took up the whole middle of the space.

  “Rolly,” she said, and pushed her walker against the front of his big shoes, forcing him to step back.

  “Wilhalmena,” he said, hulking over as much space as he still could, “I understand Mrs. Oppenheim has finally gotten around to accusing you of being a spy.”

  “Yes. I seem to have joined the club.”

  “That woman is nuts.”

  Willie didn’t want to talk about her neighbor, who once had been her friend, so she asked, “Rolly, I know you used to be an accountant. Are you volunteering with Tax Aide this year?”

  “I’m retired. I don’t do accounting anymore.”

  Willie let that statement drift into silence. She had expected the answer, but also wanted him to squirm. She knew he had tried to set up shop in Holly Hill as a cheap alternative to H&R Block, but after the first year, he had no takers. He’d shown himself to be a very careless accountant who didn’t pay attention to the annual changes in the rules.

  He’d certainly never volunteer for a free service that would give him a test before they accepted his assistance. Thank goodness for the IRS free tax preparations program.

  The elevator came to her floor, and Willie pushed out her walker, but as she shoved out, Rolly stuck his hand in the elevator door and said, “If I were you, I’d complain about The Oppenheim to the manager. She’s getting to be a danger.”

  Willie turned to him and said, “Geneva is not The Anything. Don’t be talking about others as if they were things. It makes you look crass.”

  She slid her walker beyond the doors and down the hall, hearing him punch the ‘Close Door’ button six frantic times. Willie shook her head. Some folks were hard for her to like, so she decided to let God love them while she merely tolerated.

  And she had liked Geneva, who in her prime read good books and loved depth in music and movies. Geneva Oppenheim once had been a good companion at dinner and played a mean game of Scrabble.

  Geneva was one of the few inhabitants who still worked at a paying job when she moved in. She had said she wanted the companionship of others. But she’d continued to work for the next few years as the secretary of the chief financial officer for a garden tool and chemical company.

  And then, she had abruptly quit her job, or been fired from her job. Afterward, there had been her slow slide into what appeared to be paranoia and then accusations.

  As Willie walked down the hall, she approached the open doorway of her neighbor Henry Crick. She heard his daughter’s rather raucous voice inside his apartment, and could tell this was the same argument she had every visit. “Just sign that paper, Dad. I’ll take care of your taxi, quick as a wink, and you won’t have any insurance or tax worries.”

  Passing the door, she heard Henry’s normally calm voice rise. “Brenda, you’re on about the taxi, but you are the only one worrying about it.”

  Brenda glanced out, saw traffic in the hall and slammed Henry’s door.

  Willie arrived at her apartment to find Glyn waiting outside.

  “Mrs. Stamps,” he said. “The office said you needed help with a shade cord in one of your windows.”

  Willie realized he was speaking for any nosey neighbors. “Young man, I think you are the right height to fix it. Come on in.”

  As soon as they entered, Willie knew Glyn had assessed the situation correctly. The magazines on her gold and white coffee table were neatly stacked instead of slewed about as she normally left them. Her most recent teacup had been washed.

  These neatness actions Geneva used to do without thought whenever she visited. Mess caused her discomfort. Clean became her automatic response.

  Further into the room, they found that Willie’s small desktop had been straightened and the two drawers had been closed completely, instead of as Willie always left them – closed as far as the
first kitty-wampus file folder. Not one file folder interfered with the smooth running of the drawer.

  Geneva had been here.

  Willie said, “She and I exchanged keys, back before she became so fearful. I took care of her plants and she took care of mine when we went on vacation.”

  “What could she be searching for?” Glyn asked.

  “Probably proof that I’m German.”

  “Does she know about your Grandmother Malka Silverberg?”

  “Malka, the Jewess whose daughter became a Baptist? I don’t think that would be a good recommendation as far as Geneva is concerned, especially in her present state.”

  “Besides,” Glyn observed, “Living in Arkansas as a Jew may have been hard, but not anywhere close to as frightening as living in Germany in the 30s and 40s.”

  “So, she believes I am German.”

  “Malka’s family came from Holland, didn’t they?”

  “At this point, that holds no water for Geneva, either. She thinks the Dutch gave in too easily.”

  “Let’s change the lock on your door,” Glyn said. “I’ll get the stuff from Atlasta Lock on Grand and take care of it tomorrow evening after work.”

  “Meanwhile,” Willie said, “Tell me more about the hunt for Trace.”

  “We’ve divided up the nine Bridges and the zillion overpasses in Portland and are hunting among the homeless.”

  “But Felipe told you they took him from the corner.”

  “True, but we don’t know who took him and have no idea where that ‘who’ may own a building or a house.”

  “You haven’t called in the police because...”

  “Because the guys’ experience is that the police will chalk it up to gang and drug stuff and not take it any farther until a body turns up.”

  “How will you know if a body turns up?”

  “Beats me,” Glyn said, “but that’s the guys’ call. They don’t ...”

  Willie held up her palms. “I know. They don’t trust the police. Some of the stuff I hear at the police academy tells me there are some they shouldn’t trust, and some that won’t buck the noisy ones, and a few who call the noise for the bigotry it is.”

  “If you know who to trust, tell my guys.”

  “When does the rap group practice next?”

  “Tonight.”

  Chapter Seven

  That afternoon after painting class, Willie tossed her cleaned brushes and watercolors in her locker in the recreation area of the Holly Hills Retirement Center. She studied her canvas. There, laughing at some joke they once shared, stood her deceased husband, Clifford, his head thrown back, hands on his hips, mouth open, eyes shining with fun. She laughed with him, sighed, and then set the painting in the upright rack of drying paintings along the wall of the art room. If only, she thought, if only he had never taken up smoking.

  Damned addiction!

  But his addiction was legal and made money for large companies with a lobby in Washington D.C.. Trace’s addiction? A product from outside that made no money for U.S. growers.

  In fact, in some states, incarcerating users had become the big money maker. The drug war offered an excuse to create a new class of slaves. Thank goodness Oregon wasn’t using private prisons.

  Yet.

  She walked around the empty classroom, admired the landscape filled with fairies that her sixth floor friend, Elisa Nadelstein worked on. Next to the fairies stood the large oil painting of Valkyrie maidens that was clearly part of a long ‘series’ by Leah Müller. Leah’s Valkyrie were famous among the residents as a depiction of racial angst, and an over-reaction to something, but no one seemed quite certain what.

  Side-by-side, fairies and Valkyrie seemed to nudge Willie toward poetry, but she knew if she advertised the poem, it would be seen as a slight at the deeply held beliefs of both women. So, she went into the Holly Hill library. She wrote her poem on a grocery receipt unearthed from her purse, and hid it in what once had been her own book, Nine Plays of Eugene O’Neill.

  No one would bother to look there. O’Neill was unheard of and un-read in this establishment. He looked nice on the shelf, but was never checked out.

  On Reconciling Two Visions

  Wagner’s Valkyrie,

  Mere fairies writ large,

  Ride Down from Valhalla,

  With hope to destroy

  Shakespeare’s Royal Opposition,

  The Queen and King.

  Titania, Oberon, cover your ears.

  Hunting horns of the Rhine

  May tatter your Wings.

  But you own a weapon.

  Send broonie Puck to whisper

  Self-doubt in Valkyrie minds.

  Puck, sow existential posers,

  Questions of eroding power.

  Mention your fairie indifference

  To fictions of Racial Purity.

  Blow Fairie laughter

  Through self-important egos.

  Destroy vestiges of pompous

  Myth.

  Then disappear in Fairie mists.

  Wilhalmena Stamps never much cared if her little poetic jokes went anywhere beyond her mind. She wrote and was done. She placed her poems where they might be found, one hundred years on.

  In her imagination, by that time, the library would be dismantled and the need for retirement homes no longer felt. In a century, either all aging processes would be stopped by science, or (more likely) tribal life that resulted from incessant war meant that the old were put out to die in winter’s cold.

  “So much for thinking positively,” she chided herself.

  She worried about Glyn and his friends. They really should bring the police in on this Trace situation, she thought. But she knew why they did not. The police have a reputation – an earned reputation amongst some cadres of policemen – for making negative assumptions about Black men and boys. And then acting on them with violence.

  Add to that Trace’s addiction and the so-called War on Drugs.

  No, the Ancient Nation kids were right not to involve the police in finding Trace. But that gave advantage to the drug sellers who had kidnapped him off the street corner.

  What advantage do we have? She wondered.

  We have numbers, and we care enough to persist.

  What advantage do I add to this effort? As long as those storage areas aren’t rented, I can house the band while they work, and keep them hidden from harm. But they go out at night looking in dangerous places.

  I can go out looking in the daytime. No one suspects a little old lady pushing a walker to be searching for a missing kid.

  Of course, I won’t get far. Susan won’t help me do such a thing, and neither would Glyn.

  I guess I have to resign myself to listening, analyzing and sifting information that the boys bring back to me. And going out only as far as a walker can take me.

  She headed back out of the library, and nearly became squashed by the swinging of the door.

  In rushed Valkyrie lover, Leah Müller.

  “Oh!” Leah said. “Why are you standing right there? Don’t you know the door swings?”

  Willie righted herself and said, “It swings both ways. I was just leaving.”

  “Well, that’s fine. But you must expect people to come in, so don’t just stand there.”

  Willie gritted her teeth and said, “How about if you hold the door open so that I may shuffle out?”

  Leah put out a hand to push open the door. After practicing patience for upwards of five seconds, she let the door go and said, “You know, if you moved faster, these things wouldn’t happen.”

  “If I could move faster, I’d have swung first, and you’d be on the floor.”

  As Leah puzzled that out, Willie pushed the door open again, held it with the front of her walker and moved into the hall.

  Leah followed her and hung a sign on the door that said, Library Reserved.

  “Are you giving a reading this morning?” Willie asked. She knew better, but the question gave he
r a warm feeling.

  Leah lifted her Teutonic chin, brushed back her blond bowl cut and said, “The Rhine Maidens Rowing Team is having a meeting,” Leah shut the door.

  Willie smiled to herself and spoke to the air. “Reserve the whole library so the Rhine Maidens won’t be distracted by the Adonis-like Siegrieds who live in a retirement home.”

  No surprise that Geneva long ago accused Leah of being a Nazi. Leah was too young to have been alive during Geneva’s war times, but she had the attitude.

  Then Willie pondered why Leah had come to live here at all. Willie had often seen Leah and one or two other Rhine-like Maidens, or Maiden-like Rhines race-climbing the stairs, passing her door and continuing their twelve-flight ascent. Had they come here to have access to stairs? To have access to continuing care as they slowed? Or was it to have access to people who might help them feel superior in their athletic old age?

  “The view is also nice,” Willie reminded herself. From her balcony, she could see both Mount Hood and Mount Saint Helens.

  That reminded her to go into the main dining hall kitchen and retrieve a package she had stored in the refrigerator – suet for her birds.

  She headed for the kitchen.

  But before she arrived, she passed the front desk and the Holly Hill receptionist called her over.

  Willie saw who the receptionist happened to be talking to. She groaned inwardly.

  “Hello, Officer Bailey,” Willie said. “May I help you?”

  Bailey yanked in his stomach muscles and looked as imposing as habitual laziness can seem.

  Willie straightened from her walker, adopting her teacher pose as Bailey turned to face her.

  “We’ve had a report that you steal food,” Bailey said.

  “Really. Would you like to have a key to the larder?” Willie said.

  “Steal food in a camp.”

  She lifted her walker. “I’m unlikely to go camping.”

  “Some place called Dora.”

  Now, Willie began to understand. Officer Bailey had taken a call from Geneva and, because he had disgruntled feelings toward herself, he had decided to harass.