eye. “Do we understand one another?”
He sneered at me, like I was an infant making a threat. “I know she’s here somewhere, so it’s guaranteed I’ll be back. And, like I said, her mom-in-a-box is mine until we work some stuff out.” He took a step closer and peered down. There, in his eyes, was the blaze that had so far been dormant. “Do you understand me?”
“You can go fuck yourself,” I spat, though the words were equivalent to an air punch. As the last syllable left my mouth, Sharon appeared at the doorway, buttoned up in another one of her dark pantsuits. She crossed her arms and leaned against the jamb like a schoolmarm.
Bates looked her over with that toothy smile again, pulled a business card from his back pocket, and pointed it at me. “If you see her, give me a call.”
“You bet,” I said, the middle finger heavy in my voice.
He set the card on the table, pressed it hard with his pointer, and said under his breath, “You don’t want to mess with me, old man.” With this, he patted me on the back and strutted out.
Sharon watched him go and then turned to me with weightiness in her tone. “I need to see you in my office.” She glanced at Carl with marginal concern. “Are you feeling all right?”
He nodded and struggled to stand.
I said to him, “Where are you going?”
“To check my dresser drawer and get my walker.” He made his way by, clutching on to everything in reach: the chair, the table, my arm.
Sharon acted unconcerned that he might kill himself, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that half of his trip wasn’t necessary. I already knew what he’d find. The lying and stealing was part of our disease on a cellular level. The shoe-polish tin would be empty. Jenny’s ring would be gone.
Sharon said, “Are you available to talk now?”
I drew a jagged breath.
“Excellent,” she said, rounding my wheelchair and giving it a push. “We’ve got business to discuss.”
30
Sharon parked me in her office and shut the door, cutting off the purr of conversation coming from the main area. A chilly silence took over the windowless room, making it feel like we’d entered an alternate universe. I still had adrenaline pumping through my system, though dread was replacing it in short order. Nothing good came from seeing Sharon privately, yet here I was—in a wheelchair no less.
Sharon pushed me to her desk and sat, shuffling papers out of the way. Behind her sat a filing cabinet, above which hung a clock and a corkboard. I hadn’t laid eyes on the board since my first week here, but there we all were, in alphabetical order—the residents of this home, mouth-breathing and fazed by a camera flash we should’ve seen coming. At the time, I thought it a nice way to remember names. Since Sharon had arrived, though, she seemed to be using it as a progress chart. Three pictures in the lineup had gone missing.
“If you’ll give me a second here.” She swiveled her chair to the filing cabinet and pulled open the middle drawer, dancing her fingers over the tabbed folders.
Meanwhile, I leaned over her desk to have a look at the oversize papers she’d uncovered. Instantly, I realized they were the plans for the renovated room, but before I could get a good look at them, she topped them with a manila folder. Then with practiced efficiency, she pulled a form from a desktop organizer and presented it to me with a flourish, along with her typical pucker.
“We need to talk.”
“Oh?” My voice failed me on this single syllable. I hunched over the sheet but couldn’t focus on the words. I could see it already: hallways full of shuffling people silently pleading for it to end. I’d walk around the same way. Vacant. Empty. Ready.
“So let’s start here.” She tapped her polished nail on the form. “Your fee structure needs to be adjusted.”
“It does?” How pleased I sounded.
“It’s going to be higher,” she warned.
I blinked hard a few times