In Dark Corners (19 page)

Henry remembered when Martha, his daughter, had first mentioned the place, persuading him to look at the attractive brochure. The title page had read:
The Vintage Towers: A Retirement Community for the Discriminating Senior
. He had wondered then if that was really him. Once, in Detroit, he had worn a white shirt and a tie for GM, before foreign imports forced his early retirement. But he never forgot all his years on the line, and now he thought of himself simply as a retired autoworker.
Discriminating senior
seemed a little heavy.

Well, regardless the advertising hype, Henry had found that everything here at the Towers was indeed in good taste. It was comfortable and the staff was friendly and accommodating. Unlike some retirement homes, the place was located in a good section of the city. He could see the western edge of the state university campus from his unit's windows, the football stadium within easy walking distance. Maybe he'd take in a game or two, if tickets weren't too hard to get. He nodded to himself, accepting his fate at Vintage Towers.

Thinking of Martha reminded Henry that she would be driving over this afternoon from Davis and bringing Hilary, his three-year-old granddaughter. He visualized the little girl all dressed up in her pink Sunday school best, her coffee-colored cheeks scrubbed to a high shine, but bouncing up and down in her car seat during the entire twenty-mile ride, full of restless energy. He laughed aloud. Of everything at Martha's, he missed his granddaughter most. In the year or so he'd lived at his daughter's, after Emily, his wife, had died and he'd moved West, Henry had grown quite close to Hilary. With Martha working such long hours, his granddaughter had needed a good companion, someone patient and caring enough to keep up with her youthful rambunctiousness. Henry fit the job description, actually enjoying every bit of each active day: going to one of the nearby parks—watching her assault the playground; reading to her—she loved the adventures of Raggedy Ann and Andy; all the questions—Where does the day go at night, Grandpops?; and the games—even with her skewed rules. When he thought about it, Henry really missed being needed by someone…

He broke off the line of thought before he started to feel sorry for himself, something he'd promised himself never to do after Emily's death.

Shifting his weight, he swung his legs to the floor. After stretching, he pushed his feet into his slippers, becoming aware of a dull ache in his left foot. "Oh, no," he whispered hopefully, standing up and gingerly shifting his weight to his left side. "Oh, yes," he admitted through clenched teeth, the sharp stab of pain in his big toe telling him he'd been correct in his initial diagnosis.

It was the arthritis acting up again. And he didn't have any Indocin, forgetting to pack the anti-inflammatory drug during the emotional farewells at Martha's last week. When Henry finally realized he didn't have his Indocin pills, he'd called Martha. She'd said she would make arrangements to get a new prescription filled there in Sacramento, rather than sending over the old bottle.

He picked up the phone and dialed the letters F. D.

A voice answered, "Hello, this is the front desk, Susie speaking."

"Susie, this is Henry Robinson up in three-twelve. I'm wondering if my prescription has been filled yet. My arthritis is beginning to act up."

"I think so, Mr. Robinson, but let me check…" Soft music came on the phone for a few moments, then Susie's voice again. "Yes, your Doctor Kyber in Davis has phoned in the prescription, which should be filled and here by lunchtime. Check with me then— Oh, Mr. Robinson I just distributed the mail, and you have two letters in your box."

"Thank you, Susie," Henry said warmly, appreciating the young woman's consideration and efficiency. She was one of his favorite staff members.

***

After getting dressed and eating breakfast, Henry made his way to the mail boxes in the wall left of the front desk, favoring his sensitive left foot. He smiled at Susie, who waved at him from the switchboard as he picked up his two letters—her photo had been prominently featured in the brochure for the Towers, an alert bundle of blue-eyed, blonde-haired efficiency; then he glanced at the return addresses—one was from his insurance company's branch downtown, the other from an unfamiliar legal firm. Limping to ease the sharp pain in his big toe, he made his way into the lounge, found a chair away from the TV, which was blaring already. Was that some foreign language—the Asian-American station? Well, it didn't really matter, he thought, relaxing in the chair, ignoring the TV.

Most curious about the second letter from Breedlove, Myers, and Epstein, he opened it first, reading the short message through twice:

Mr. Henry Robinson

The Vintage Towers

1700 Towers Way, Unit 312

Sacramento, CA 95827

Dear Mr. Robinson,

Your daughter, Ms. Martha Lewis, has been in contact with us about you giving her power of attorney for your legal affairs. If you agree we will send a paralegal, Maxine Ishikawa, to the Towers to help with the execution of the necessary documents.

Sincerely,

James P. Breedlove

Breedlove, Myers, and Epstein,

The Jordan Building, Suite 201

1200 "K" Street

Sacramento, CA 95831

Henry let the letter slip through his fingers and rest in his lap on the other letter. Power of attorney? He wasn't sure that was necessary. The stroke had really been minor.

Henry gazed absently at the flickering T.V. and reflected back to when he'd come home from the hospital after the stroke and discovered things had changed. Martha had made arrangements for a professional gardener to not only tend to the lawn, trees, and plants, but even the little vegetable garden he and Hilary had planted out back. The gardener had made it perfectly clear he didn't need Henry's help. Finally, after days of ongoing arguments, Martha had dropped the bomb. "Okay, Dad, with me not here much of the day, maybe we need to refocus. A new babysitter for Hilary? Maybe some kind of other living arrangement for you?" She handed him the Towers' brochure.

Well, he hadn't argued much after that. It was
her
house. And Henry knew he was an additional concern in his daughter's busy life, even if he wasn't acting strange like she'd implied. She didn't need him hanging around.

He blinked, sucked in another breath, then shifted his attention to the letter from his insurance company. It was a brief note with a form to change his beneficiary. He'd done nothing since Emily had died over a year ago. Martha must've contacted them, too. Before putting the letter back into the envelope something made him take a second look at the bottom, at the signature:

Sincerely,

Kenneth Ishikawa

Now that was kind of odd. The same name appeared in both letters. He didn't think Ishikawa was that common a name. But after a moment or two he dismissed the similarity as a coincidence and glanced at the clock on the wall: 11:30. Almost time for lunch. He'd check with Susie and see if his medicine was here.

***

At the front desk Henry found the medicine had come, and he unwrapped it, taking out the little plastic bottle and reading the label:

Trade-Mart Pharmacy

Prescription #654-540 H. Robinson Dr. Kyber Indomethacin caps 25 mg #30 (for Indocin)

Take 1 to 2 capsules every 6 hours for arthritis

9/27/91Filled by R. Ishikawa253-8732

"Oh, no," Henry said, shaking the little bottle, noticing they'd made a substitution for Indocin.

"What's wrong, Mr. Robinson?" Susie asked, frowning with concern.

"It's okay, Susie," Henry replied, "they made a substitution that causes me problems, some bad side effects. Nothing for you to worry about. I'll phone the pharmacy myself and get it straightened out."

"Okay," Susie said, pushing the desk phone closer to Henry. "Then, I'll have our man pick up the correction after lunch."

"That will be fine," Henry said, reaching for the phone as he checked the bottle again for the number. But his hand froze in midair as he noticed the name near the phone number. "That's incredible!" he said, holding out the bottle for Susie to look. "Is that the one that always fills your prescriptions?"

"Trade-Mart Pharmacy," she said, nodding. "It's real close."

"No, the pharmacist, I mean," he said, pointing to the name at the bottom of the label.

Susie leaned closer across the counter, reading the name. "Ishikawa? No, that name's a new one on me. I think we normally get someone else. Is there anything wrong with this one?"

Henry shrugged. "I don't know. It's just the
name
. It's been popping up everywhere this morning, you know?"

Susie looked confused, obviously not understanding—

Her switchboard hummed. "Excuse me," she said.

Henry smiled and nodded, mouthing the words:
It's O.K.
Then he turned and headed for the dining area. After eating he'd go down and see what his new friend, Otis, thought about the name that kept springing up everywhere. Otis was semi-retired, a live-in maintenance man, and he'd helped carry up three boxes of heavy books when Henry had moved into the Towers last Sunday. Later that evening, after Henry had gone out to dinner with Martha and Hilary, he'd brought back a couple of Millers to share with his new friend. Otis had been a kick, his easy-going, good nature reminding Henry of a 'supe' in the apartment building in Detroit where he'd grown up. He'd enjoyed Otis's company.

***

After lunch Henry made his way down the stairs to the maintenance office in the basement, thinking about the interesting lunch. He knew the Towers had ethnic dinners on Friday nights, but hadn't known they also served special lunches. It had been oriental food, decor, music—but the chopsticks seemed a little more authentic than required. But he'd managed, and really enjoyed the soba. Reaching the basement level Henry thought about his visit. He still had the two letters and the prescription bottle, and he paused at the office door for a moment to check out the three names, just to make sure
he
wasn't being
weird
, like Martha claimed…No, the three names were all the same.

Henry rapped on the door.

"Hey, door's open, y'all c'mon in," Otis' voice boomed.

With a smile, Henry pushed open the office door.

"My man, Hank," Otis said, standing up from the corner of his desk, where he'd been sitting, apparently enjoying the breeze from a fan set up across the desk. He stuck out his upturned palm.

"How's it going, Otis?" Henry asked, gently slapping the outstretched hand.

"Going good, man," the maintenance man answered, his broad smile deepening the creases in his face. "Taking a little break, ya know."

Henry nodded, glancing about the tiny cluttered office. "Breeze feels good," he said, looking back at his friend. That was when he first noticed the name stitched in dark blue over the left pocket of Otis' work shirt:
Otis Ishikawa.

For a moment he just stared, dumbfounded—

Noticing his state, Otis asked, "Say, you okay, Hank? Can I get you a drink of water or something?"

By then Henry had regained his composure. "No, I'm fine. Felt a little loss of breath. I'll take the elevator down next time. Guess I better head up to my room and lie down for a few minutes." But before he turned to go he looked more closely at his friend's face, at the features which appeared to have changed slightly since last Sunday—the face seemed a bit more round, the skin tone lighter, and the hair straighter— Or was it his imagination?

"You do that, man," Otis replied. Then as an afterthought he added, "Can I help you back up there?"

"No, no, I'm okay, now. I'll make it." Henry held out his palm. After Otis slapped it, he said, "Adios, amigo."

"Sayonara, Hank."

Henry hurried to the elevator, asking himself, what the devil is going on? He rode up to the lobby, still confused, then headed to the desk, to discuss the problem with Susie, who had her back to him.

"My, God, Susie…" he began, his hoarse voice cracking.

She turned around quickly, obviously startled by the strain in his tone, and clasped her hands to her chest. "Oh, Mr. Robinson, it's you."

"I'm sor—" he began to say, but the apology caught in his throat as his gaze was drawn to her name tag:
Ms. Susie Ishikawa

He was shocked, remembering her explanation concerning the pharmacist:
Ishikawa
?
No, that name's a new one on me
.

Then he realized she was saying something to him.

"…Mr. Robinson, should I get the nurse? You don't look like you feel well."

Henry shook his head. "I'm fine, Susie, but I think I'll go up and take a little rest before my visitors arrive. You'll call me?" Her features, too, seemed to be transforming—her hair darker, her nose snubbier, something about the eyes—

"Sure thing, Mr. Robinson," she replied, smiling.

Without another word Henry spun around and headed for the elevator. He needed time to think, time away from everyone.

***

In his room, Henry sat on the chair near his phone, gazing out over the apartment buildings at the university campus, trying to figure out what was happening here. It was almost like some kind of virus, the name spreading apparently by sight, then the physical changes—at least that's what appeared to happen to Susie.
Jesus
, he swore to himself, it's an epidemic.

What could he do? Notify someone? But
who
could he call?

The police—!

No, what could they do? He rubbed his chin, contemplating. If it was an epidemic, a
normal
epidemic, who would you notify? Ah, the County Health Department.

Henry picked up his phone book, found the number, then pushed the buttons.

The phone rang about five times, before he realized it was Saturday, the weekend, everyone probably off—