sat reading a magazine. A
name badge with
Volunteer Resident
written on it was pinned to her gray cardigan. She looked up at Emma and smiled.
“Can you tell me how to get to Sylvia Brodsky’s apartment?” Emma asked.
Emma was surprised when the woman smoothly typed Sylvia’s name into the PC on the
desk. Emma realized it was vanity to assume that only the young knew how to use computers.
The woman smiled again. “She’s down that hallway toward the end. Number 204.”
Emma thanked her, and she and Arabella began the journey down the long hallway, trailing
the scent of pizza behind them. Most of the doors had some sort of decoration on them—a
seasonal wreath, bells or fake flowers. All in all, Emma thought the place was rather
nice. They passed a room with
Activities
written on a plaque next to it. The scene outside the door reminded Emma of the time
the Hells Angels rode into town and stopped at the bar on Route 69, although instead
of a mass of Harleys parked at the curb, here it was a tangle of walkers, wheelchairs
and motorized scooters.
They found Sylvia’s apartment easily enough, and Sylvia’s deep rumble greeted their
knock immediately.
“Come on in.” Sylvia was wearing a rich burgundy caftan and had a paisley scarf tied
around her hair. Her bright gold hoop earrings caught the light from the hallway and
reflected it back.
“This is very nice.” Arabella stopped on the threshold and took in the small living
room, neatly arranged with Sylvia’s things—her silver samovar taking pride of place
on a round table covered with a brightly colored fringed cloth.
To Emma everything looked almost the same as it had in Sylvia’s old apartment over
the Taffy Pull but without the sickeningly sweet smells of sugar and vanilla permeating
the air.
“Eh, it’s not bad,” Sylvia admitted.
An older gentleman with an ebony-topped walking stick stuck his head through the open
doorway. “Oh, you’ve got company. Pardon me.”
Sylvia patted her kerchief. “Don’t be silly, Earl. Come on in. These are a couple
of friends of mine. Arabella”—she swept a hand in Arabella’s direction—“and her niece,
Emma.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ladies.” He gave a sharp bow. “Don’t let me disturb your party.
I’ll see you later tonight at cards?”
“Sure.” Sylvia waved good-bye and shut the door as Earl ambled away.
“Everyone seems quite friendly.”
“Bunch of nosey parkers you mean,” Sylvia grumbled, but Emma noticed the smile hovering
around her lips. “You want a tour before we eat?”
“We’d love one, wouldn’t we, Emma?”
“There’s not a whole lot to see.” Sylvia grabbed her keys from the small desk by the
door and tucked them in the pocket of her caftan. She led them out to the hallway.
“This wing is all independent living. A lot of us still have cars, and we can all
manage without any help.”
“Yes, but if you need it, it’s close at hand, I imagine,” Arabella said.
Sylvia nodded. “Now on the other wing you’ve got your assisted living types. We have
a kitchen in our places, but they don’t. They take their meals in the main dining
room. Some of them may need help bathing or dressing or have to have someone remind
them to take their pills. Thank God I’m not there yet.”
“What’s in the main building? I noticed it must be four or five stories.” Arabella
glanced through the open door of an apartment.
“That’s your nursing.” Sylvia led them around the corner toward the reception area.
“The poor stiffs there need a lot more care than the rest of us. Frankly, I’d rather
check out than end up there. Half of them don’t even know where they are.”
They were about to head back to Sylvia’s apartment when they heard shouts coming down
the corridor.
“Thief! Stop! Thief!” A woman in a pair of mint green pants, a matching print top
and white flats yelled at the top of her lungs. Her
name badge with
Volunteer Resident
written on it was pinned to her gray cardigan. She looked up at Emma and smiled.
“Can you tell me how to get to Sylvia Brodsky’s apartment?” Emma asked.
Emma was surprised when the woman smoothly typed Sylvia’s name into the PC on the
desk. Emma realized it was vanity to assume that only the young knew how to use computers.
The woman smiled again. “She’s down that hallway toward the end. Number 204.”
Emma thanked her, and she and Arabella began the journey down the long hallway, trailing
the scent of pizza behind them. Most of the doors had some sort of decoration on them—a
seasonal wreath, bells or fake flowers. All in all, Emma thought the place was rather
nice. They passed a room with
Activities
written on a plaque next to it. The scene outside the door reminded Emma of the time
the Hells Angels rode into town and stopped at the bar on Route 69, although instead
of a mass of Harleys parked at the curb, here it was a tangle of walkers, wheelchairs
and motorized scooters.
They found Sylvia’s apartment easily enough, and Sylvia’s deep rumble greeted their
knock immediately.
“Come on in.” Sylvia was wearing a rich burgundy caftan and had a paisley scarf tied
around her hair. Her bright gold hoop earrings caught the light from the hallway and
reflected it back.
“This is very nice.” Arabella stopped on the threshold and took in the small living
room, neatly arranged with Sylvia’s things—her silver samovar taking pride of place
on a round table covered with a brightly colored fringed cloth.
To Emma everything looked almost the same as it had in Sylvia’s old apartment over
the Taffy Pull but without the sickeningly sweet smells of sugar and vanilla permeating
the air.
“Eh, it’s not bad,” Sylvia admitted.
An older gentleman with an ebony-topped walking stick stuck his head through the open
doorway. “Oh, you’ve got company. Pardon me.”
Sylvia patted her kerchief. “Don’t be silly, Earl. Come on in. These are a couple
of friends of mine. Arabella”—she swept a hand in Arabella’s direction—“and her niece,
Emma.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ladies.” He gave a sharp bow. “Don’t let me disturb your party.
I’ll see you later tonight at cards?”
“Sure.” Sylvia waved good-bye and shut the door as Earl ambled away.
“Everyone seems quite friendly.”
“Bunch of nosey parkers you mean,” Sylvia grumbled, but Emma noticed the smile hovering
around her lips. “You want a tour before we eat?”
“We’d love one, wouldn’t we, Emma?”
“There’s not a whole lot to see.” Sylvia grabbed her keys from the small desk by the
door and tucked them in the pocket of her caftan. She led them out to the hallway.
“This wing is all independent living. A lot of us still have cars, and we can all
manage without any help.”
“Yes, but if you need it, it’s close at hand, I imagine,” Arabella said.
Sylvia nodded. “Now on the other wing you’ve got your assisted living types. We have
a kitchen in our places, but they don’t. They take their meals in the main dining
room. Some of them may need help bathing or dressing or have to have someone remind
them to take their pills. Thank God I’m not there yet.”
“What’s in the main building? I noticed it must be four or five stories.” Arabella
glanced through the open door of an apartment.
“That’s your nursing.” Sylvia led them around the corner toward the reception area.
“The poor stiffs there need a lot more care than the rest of us. Frankly, I’d rather
check out than end up there. Half of them don’t even know where they are.”
They were about to head back to Sylvia’s apartment when they heard shouts coming down
the corridor.
“Thief! Stop! Thief!” A woman in a pair of mint green pants, a matching print top
and white flats yelled at the top of her lungs. Her
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