Read Online Irish Chain by Earlene Fowler - Free Book Online Page A

my shoes back on my icy feet. The hallway, usually crowded with wheelchairs, walkers, nurses’ aides and various visitors, was empty, all the guests living in this wing apparently enjoying the dance.
    “Let’s try the nurses’ station.”
    We walked toward the center of the building, the heels of my pumps clicking across the shiny tile floor like tiny gunshots. A lone attendant sat at the central station, hunched over a Spanish comic book. The front cover pictured a buxom blond woman and a Latino-looking Dick Tracy.
    “Excuse me,” I said to the attendant, a middle-aged man with a stiff black pompadour and a silver religious medallion around his neck. “Have you seen an elderly man go by here recently?”
    “Yes?” His voice rose in question.
    “Which way did he go?”
    “Yes?” He surveyed me with friendly black eyes. “ No habla inglés. ”
    I turned and looked at Ramon expectantly. He fired off a rapid question ending in “Señor O’Hara.” The attendant’s brown face remained blank. Ramon tried again. I understood the words gringo and viejo . Old white man. The man answered with a few words and a crooked smile, spreading his arms widely to encompass both hallways.
    “What did he say?” I asked.
    “Basically that the place is chock full of them,” Ramon said. “Geeze, Benni, can’t we just crown someone else? They all look alike. Who’s going to know the difference?” I shook my head and turned to the attendant.
    “ Gracias ,” I said, then faced Ramon. “Let’s split up. You check the rooms down the west and east wings. I’ll take the north and south.”
    He heaved a dramatic sigh. “You’re the boss.” He started down the green-tiled hall, sticking his head unabashedly into the first room he came to and yelled, “Yo, Mr. O.”
    “Ramon,” I hissed. “Try and show some respect. Knock before you go into a room. Someone might be in there. And check the east garden too.”
    Without turning around, he flapped his hand behind him mimicking a quacking duck.
    “Smart ass,” I muttered and headed left to check the north wing first. I walked down the corridor peeking discreetly into the open doors, knocking loudly and waiting a few seconds before opening the closed ones. Most of the white doors, in preparation for tomorrow, sported Valentine’s Day decorations made in the weekly crafts class. Some enthusiastic residents had already gotten an early start and pasted green and orange shamrocks next to the hearts. The retirement home’s obsession with holidays reminded me of elementary school. Though most of the guests enjoyed it, some, like Oralee, found it condescending. The battle to keep the door to their room bare or decorated was a tug of war between her and Miss Violet who, as a former grade-school teacher, felt right at home with holiday-fixation.
    The last room in the north corridor was the crafts room, where I’d spent many hours in the last few weeks. It was a long shot, but I checked anyway. The cramped, windowless room held only the Steps to the Altar quilt the ladies started piecing a month ago, and our quilting supplies. Our next meeting would be this coming week at the co-op studios to stretch it out and start the actual quilting.
    I closed the door and walked back toward the south side of the building, thinking about the blue and pink quilt.
    “So, Benni,” Thelma had said at our last meeting. “Just how many steps does it take to get to the altar these days?”
    “I have no idea,” I’d answered, trying to concentrate on what had become my main job with these expert quilters, threading a ready supply of needles.
    “Just like in our time, no doubt,” Martha said, stabbing her needle as aggressively through the fabric as she gave her opinions to the world. “It probably depends on who’s doing the stepping.”
    Thelma reached over, grabbed a new needle and patted me on the shoulder. “You take your time, honey. And don’t you forget, the smartest thing a woman can