The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (12 page)

It took Berenger several years to realize he had joined the army directly after graduating as a result of his mother’s departure. He had been full of anger during those years and the army provided him an outlet. Three years in Southeast Asia did little to ease the anger. Even though the war was officially over, there was still enough covert military activity for the U.S. in Vietnam and surrounding areas to keep Berenger occupied. Berenger was based in the Philippines and worked as a Special Agent in the Criminal Investigations Division, which may have served to dampen his feelings of resentment toward his mother but it also gave him a radically new outlook on life. When he finally returned to the States, he had more or less forgiven her. By the mid-eighties, he had come to love and admire his stepfather and tried to visit his mom in New York as often as he could.

Daniel Berenger never remarried. He had died of heart failure in 1990 but Berenger knew that the old man’s heart had actually failed in 1973, when Ann left him. Ann’s husband Abraham died of cancer in 1999 and that’s when things started to fall apart with Berenger’s mother. She had already begun to show signs of dementia and Abraham had expressed his concern to Berenger on several occasions. After his stepfather’s death, Berenger made the difficult decision to move his mother into an assisted living facility. His brother Carl, now an attorney in Los Angeles, supported the move and flew east to help with the transition.

Nothing produced guilt more than doing something like that to one’s parent. Berenger attempted to convince himself that he wasn’t sentencing his mother to a prison. After all, she would receive full-time care and be around other people her age. She would have activities and things to keep her mind occupied. And most importantly, she’d be safe—from herself. Still, it saddened Berenger every time he went to visit. Franklin Village was a beautiful and well-run outfit, and it was certainly better than a nursing home, but he still found it depressing. It was a constant reminder that everyone eventually grew old and had to deal with the final days of life.

Traffic was lighter than he had expected so Berenger reached Hempstead in record time after leaving Queens. He pulled into the Franklin Village parking lot and took a moment to prepare himself. This wasn’t going to be easy.

He went inside the building, signed in, and went to the administrator’s office, where Betty Samuels was waiting for him.

“Hello, Mister Berenger, how are you?” she said, greeting him.

“Fine, thanks. How’s my mom?”

“She’s doing swell. I thought perhaps we’d talk before you went to see her.”

“Okay.”

He sat in one of the chairs in front of the woman’s desk as she spoke. “Your mother was examined today by one of the nurses. She didn’t pass many of the simple memory tests we can administer here. I suggest you make an appointment with her physician to do some more thorough testing. But we talked about this the last time you were here. She’s definitely showing more pronounced signs of Alzheimer’s, I’m sorry to say.”

“I know,” Berenger replied. “It’s been getting worse since she got here. Last time I was here she wasn’t sure if I was my brother or me. It must have something to do with the lack of companionship. You know, her husband dying and all.”

“Yes, I’m sure that contributes to it. At any rate, we’ve picked out a room in the Neighborhood that’s identical to the one she’s in now. You’ve been through the Neighborhood, haven’t you?”

Berenger nodded. The dementia unit was indeed a mirror image of the regular wards except that the residents were unable to leave the wing. They were kept separate from the rest of the population and even had their own dining room. Unfortunately this accentuated the notion that the occupants were “patients.” Some of them felt like inmates.

Mrs. Samuels continued. “I did mention last time that because your mother has been a resident for more than two years, you’ll receive a discount on the monthly payments. Normally the Neighborhood rooms run twenty per cent higher than those in the open wards; in your case it’s ten per cent.”

Berenger shrugged and said, “Thanks.” It didn’t matter. A prison was a prison even if the attendants were kind ladies in white uniforms instead of mean, burly male guards. He couldn’t imagine having to live the last days of his life in such an environment, but there was no telling how things would turn out. The bottom line was his mother was ill and there was nothing else he could do about it. He had to keep telling himself that he was doing the right thing.

“So if it’s all right with you, we’d like to move her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I think it’s best,” Mrs. Samuels said.

Berenger stroked his beard. “Gee. I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.”

“We just can’t be responsible if she pulls another stunt like she did today. Our staff is diligent but they can’t have eyes on everyone all the time. You understand.”

He shrugged and nodded. “Okay. Do I need to help with the move?”

“Oh, no. We have people to do that. All you have to do is come back tomorrow evening and see her in her new place. I’m telling you, very few of our Neighborhood residents actually realize they’ve been moved.”

“Well, my mom’s not
that
far gone yet.”

Mrs. Samuels pursed her lips.

“Is she?”

“Why don’t we go look in on her?” Mrs. Samuels suggested.

They stood and walked out of the office and into the commons, a large open area where the residents sat with visitors, played cards at tables, or read. There were other recreational rooms with televisions, a gym, a beauty salon, a library, and a snack bar. Berenger liked the place because it felt more like a hotel than an assisted living facility. He supposed that perception would change once his mother moved into the Neighborhood.

Ann Berkowitz was in one of the two television rooms off to the side of the commons, watching
Friends
. Three other women sat near her—they were laughing and enjoying the program but she was not. Every time he saw her now, she appeared smaller for some reason. Was she shrinking? She was much tinier than Berenger remembered her being when he was growing up. Now she looked so fragile and elderly. It nearly broke his heart.

When he entered the room she looked up. He could swear that there was a moment’s pause before the glint of recognition appeared in her eyes.

“Hi mom, how you doing?” he asked.

“There wasn’t any butter,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“There wasn’t any butter. I told them a hundred times they need butter on the table.”

He looked at Mrs. Samuels for an explanation. She didn’t have a clue either.

“Come on, mom, let’s go for a little walk.” He helped her up and she walked with him out of the room.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a bit,” Mrs. Samuels said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Thanks,” he said. He allowed his mother to put her arm through his.

“Such a gentleman,” she said, smiling. It was good to see her smile. “Just like Abe. You met Abe, didn’t you?” She meant her late husband.

“Of course, mom. Abe was a great guy.”

“Of course you met him, how could I be so silly. Yeah, he was a great guy. My parents liked him a lot, too.”

Berenger wrinkled his brow. Her parents were long dead by the time she’d met Abraham Berkowitz. He didn’t say anything until they reached the commons and sat on one of the big sofas in front of an unlit fireplace.

“Listen, mom, tomorrow they’re gonna move you into a new room,” he said.

“Huh? Why?”

“Well, it’s a better room. We thought you’d like a nicer room.”

“I don’t want a nicer room. Not unless I can have my apartment back.”

“What apartment, mom?”

“The one I shared with Cindy.”

“Cindy?” At first he couldn’t remember anyone named Cindy. Then it hit him. “You mean
Cindy
? Your college roommate?” His mom’s best friend from school was named Cindy Watkins. She had been around when Berenger was a kid. Cindy was dead now, too.

“Cindy and I have a nice apartment. Can I go back there?”

“Mom, you lived with Cindy when you were going to college at Florida State. That was a long time ago.”

“Oh. I miss Cindy. Have you seen her lately?”

“No, mom, I haven’t.” Mrs. Samuels was right. It was getting worse. “Look, mom, don’t worry. You’re gonna love the new room. You may not even know the difference. They’re gonna take you someplace fun tomorrow, like to the mall or something, and then when you come back in the afternoon all your things will be moved.”

She wasn’t listening. Instead she was fumbling through her little purse that she always carried with her. There wasn’t much in there. Residents didn’t need to keep billfolds, money, keys, or other items younger people took for granted. She finally found a tube of lipstick and showed it to Berenger.

“Here it is,” she said. “I’ve been looking for this.”

“Whatcha need lipstick for now, mom?” he asked.

She looked confused. “Lip—?” She eyed it and put it back in her purse. “Oh. I thought it was…” She shook her head slightly and then shrugged it off. “So how’s work?” she asked.

“Work’s fine, mom. Hey, I talked to Carl the other day. He said to send you his love.”

“Carl’s a good boy,” she replied. She patted Berenger on the cheek. “So are you, honey. You’re just like a son to me.”

Aww geez
, he thought.

B
erenger made a glass of Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and sat in the easy chair that dominated the living room of his Upper East Side apartment. He picked up the television remote and almost switched on the set but decided against it. He was too depressed to watch the crap on TV.

It had been a trying evening. He hated seeing his mother in her condition. At least she still maintained a pleasant composure. He knew some Alzheimer’s patients became terribly angry and belligerent with the world around them. In many ways they were aware of what was happening to them and couldn’t deal with it—hence, they lashed out at their loved ones and anyone else that invaded their space. It was truly a cruel disease.

Berenger allowed himself to wander through memories of Ann Berkowitz when she still lived at home. Of course, she had been Ann Berenger then. She had been a babe and enjoyed flirting with other men. His poor father didn’t have a chance. She had always set her sights above and beyond Daniel Berenger and nothing was going to stop her from attaining the level of satisfaction with life and love she desired. It was only recently that Berenger began to admire this trait in her because he recognized it in himself.

He reached over the arm of the chair and picked up his CF Martin D-15 acoustic guitar from its stand. It wasn’t particularly high-end—all his good stuff was at the office studio—but it was a wonderful instrument to mess around with at home. He set it in his lap and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the rosewood fingerboard and strummed a loud E minor chord. From there he went to an A major and back to E minor. Berenger began to riff on the two chords, creating a melancholy melody that complemented his mood. After a minute or two, he went into an old song he had written for his band, The Fixers. It was their one single, a tune called “Moonbeams on Mars.” As far as he knew, it was never played on any radio station, even in Austin, where the band enjoyed a small following.

Berenger formed The Fixers with his friend Charlie Potts after he had come home from Southeast Asia in 1978. He had learned his current trade in the army but he wouldn’t explore it further for another fifteen years. The stint with CID had toughened him and gave him discipline—but his heart had always been in music. His high school band had been a lot of fun but as with most teenage garage bands, there was no money to be had. Lugging around equipment in a borrowed van was more hassle than it was worth. With the money he had saved from his army salary, Berenger invested in a decent rig, called up Charlie, and before long they were jamming in Daniel Berenger’s garage, just like they had done in high school. When they added two more guys to fill out the sound, Berenger realized that they had something worthwhile going.

The Fixers was a Prog Rock/Art Rock group that fit in well with the underground club scene in Austin. Luckily, Austin was always a haven for eclectic music. Just about any musical genre could thrive in Austin as long as it was
good
. The Fixers were talented indeed. A local manager heard them and signed them for a one record deal. They recorded it in a week, released the album and a single in 1979, and buried the unsold copies in a landfill in 1980. Apparently, Prog and Art Rock just didn’t have the impact it once had earlier in the decade. The latter seventies were dominated by Disco in one camp or by Punk and New Wave in the other. The failure hit Berenger hard and he drowned himself in liquor and drugs throughout most of the rest of that year. In early ’81 he took the job as tour manager for Grendel and his life turned around.