"So, you're telling me your incompetence caused my mother's fall?" Ralph Penwarren bellowed at the hapless desk clerk.
"No, sir. That's not what— I didn't say— Mr. Penwarren!"
He hustled past her glassed in office, storming down the corridor to his mother's apartment. "Mom?" He called and banged on the door.
"She's not there," the assistant director told him as he followed in the big man's wake. "That's what Sue was trying to tell you. She's in the nursing facility now that she's left the hospital. If you'd listened to Sue. . . ."
"Then show me where to find her," Penwarren demanded.
"If you'd follow me. Quietly. The residents are mostly asleep. You'll have the whole place awake if you aren't careful."
"Just because that would be inconvenient for you—"
"Not so much that, Mr. Penwarren. These people live a very orderly life. They, like your mother, pay for a service—one of those things being peace and quiet. You're disrupting that. If you continue, I'll have you removed."
"You'll try. . . ."
Frank Atherton drew himself up to a rather impressive height, broad chest straining against his tailored suit. Mr. Penwarren was a less impressive height and on the stocky side. He was loud, rude and inflammatory. The director didn't like dealing with him, which was why Atherton had been enlisted. As a retired, combat honed Army Captain, he wasn't intimidated by Penwarren.
Ralph's blustering faded on his lips.
"Your mother is sleeping at the moment, but I'm sure she'd like to see you in the morning. Meanwhile, if you'd like to find a place to stay—"
"I'm gonna stay at her place."
Atherton stopped walking, turning to Penwarren who panted a step or two behind him.
"With your mother's permission. Another thing they pay for is privacy."
"She's my mother."
"Yes. I'm not denying that."
"She wants me to stay there."
"She hasn't given me any instructions to that effect. Nor has she contacted the front desk. We can set you up with a guest room."
"Her room is already paid for. And now we're also paying for her to stay in the nursing facility."
"Yes, that's true."
"So, she doesn't need her place."
"Also true. However, her things are there. We'll set you up with a guest room."
"But—"
"In the morning, when your mother wakes up, we'll check with her and see what she has to say."
"We'll just wake her now!"
"I don't think so. Your mother is recovering from major surgery. I won't allow you to interfere with that process."
"She fell because of your staff's incompetence!"
Atherton faced Penwarren, taking a deep breath. "Your mother fell, Mr. Penwarren, because she needs to be in the assisted living facility. Something my boss has tried to tell you repeatedly. You refused to have her moved, citing that the expense was too great. Well, now you've the added expense of surgery and the stay in the nursing facility—not to mention rehabilitation. . . ."
"I thought her insurance covered all that."
"Most of it, yes. There are always unexpected costs, things no insurance will cover. But your mother assures me that she's financially set. Our records clearly show that she can afford it."
"You have copies of her financial records?"
"Of course. That's one thing she agreed to when she moved in."
"I don't like that, Atherton. I don't like that at all!" His volume rose with each word.
"You can continue not to like it. Makes no difference to me. But if you don't keep your voice down, I can and will remove you from our grounds. You think I can't handle a man your size? I assure you, I'm fully capable of whooping your ass." He kept his voice quiet, his tone calm and steady. "You've run roughshod over this place since your mother moved in six years ago. We all love Mabel. She's a lovely lady. However, we aren't as fond of you and we're in no way obligated to allow you on the property. You keep that in mind, Mr. Penwarren, and conduct yourself accordingly."
Atherton led the gasping Penwarren to the front desk and asked Sue for a room assignment. She flipped through her files and dug through the keys until she came up with one for him. She made him fill out paperwork and handed over the key with a smirk.
"You've got to be kidding me. This is in Building Three."
"Yes, that's correct."
"That's the middle of nowhere! Don't you have anything closer to her place?"
"That's closer to the nursing home, Mr. Penwarren," Atherton assured him. "Since your mother will be there, it's a logical place to be."
"Don't think that I'll forget this." Penwarren pointed a stubby finger at Sue.
"Sue," Frank Atherton interjected. "If you have any trouble from Mr. Penwarren, you call me personally. Day or night. Understood?"
"Completely, Frank. I've got you on speed dial." She hid a smile of satisfaction when Penwarren blanched.
"Since you seem to know where that room is located, I'll leave you to it," Frank said politely.
"Can I at least get help with my luggage?"
"This isn't a hotel, Mr. Penwarren. It's a retirement facility. We don't have bellboys."
"Can you—?"
Frank held his hands out from his sides, showing off his expensive charcoal pinstripe suit. "Saville Row suits do not carry luggage, Mr. Penwarren. Good night." He nodded, backing toward the elevator.
"Asshole," Penwarren mumbled as he went out the front door.
"Douchebag," Frank muttered as he waited for the elevator.
Normally, Frank Atherton would have been home already, his feet up, a cold lager in his hand. However, they'd known all day that Penwarren was due to arrive. Not knowing the exact time, he'd stayed, spending the night in one of the guest rooms, just in case there was trouble. He didn't live far, but making the drive in the cold, on potentially icy roads, in the middle of the night, held very little appeal.
Ralph Penwarren was a bully. He was also a skinflint who didn't care enough about his mother to give her the care she needed. He visited once a year and bullied and belittled his mother the entire time.
Mabel Penwarren was a lovely, sweet natured, delicate woman in her late eighties. She endured Ralph's behavior, but it took her a long time to bounce back after one of his visits. This one was unscheduled, due to a fall she had a week before. Ralph insisted on flying in to harangue the retirement facility, using her well being as an excuse.
Frank Atherton had met Penwarren twice before. He'd worked for Sheltering Oaks Retirement Home for almost three years in the purchasing department. His military experience had done him in good stead. He was organized, efficient and able to handle any crisis that arose. When the previous assistant manager quit unexpectedly, he'd been the logical choice to take over. He'd found out on the sly that his predecessor had left largely in part because of Ralph Penwarren.
Once in his room, Frank kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket. The room was comfortably warm, the heat blowing gently from wall units in the living room and bedroom. The small kitchen had been fully stocked by the housekeeping staff, minus beer, of course. No alcohol was allowed on campus as it was a church sponsored facility.
The dining room had sent up a meal for him, which he hadn't had a chance to eat. He opened the 'to go' containers and emptied the contents onto a plate. Popping it into the microwave, he started the Salisbury steaks, mashed potatoes and green beans heating. It smelled good. Not a gourmet meal, but beat the crap he usually ate all to hell and back.
Frank wasn't a cook. He ate out or fixed frozen dinners for himself. He wouldn't starve, but the dining room meal was the closest he usually got to home cooked. Still single, he'd never even had a live in girlfriend. Overseas most of his military career, he hadn't had the opportunity to make or maintain a long relationship with a woman. Special Ops had to be ready to bug out on a moment's notice.
He'd gotten more than one call when he had the rare female company. Women tended not to like the fact he had to toss them out in the middle of the night so he could go on some mission he couldn't talk about afterward.
So, he was single, unattached, bored, frustrated and horny. It was just as well he didn't have any alcohol. The way he was feeling, he'd probably have drunk himself into oblivion.
The microwave dinged while he was donning his jeans and T-shirt. He pulled the shirt over his head and crossed the 10 feet between the bedroom and kitchen quickly. He grabbed a fork out of the drawer and went to the living room to eat. This guest room was only partially furnished. There was a TV, wingback chair and loveseat in the living room. No dining room table, but a small end table with a single lamp took up space to the left side of the couch.
The bedroom had a chest of drawers, the other end table a queen sized bed and a floor lamp. He'd scrounged the unoccupied guest room next door and pulled another floor lamp out of the closet. This, he added to the illumination in the bedroom. He turned on the dining area light and the lamp before clicking on the TV. Setting down his plate, he got himself a soda from the fridge, popping it open one handed.
"Crap," he mumbled, hitting the remote to change the station. "Crap—crap—crap. . . . Caca en Españole."
He continued to click until he got to the History Channel. A program on military intelligence gathering was ending. He watched until they started a program on Nazi death camps. Preferring not to see that yet again, he clicked once more.
The next channel was the Sheltering Oaks in-home station. It ran informational programs about the facility, but also interviews of residents, special guests and random strangers. An attractive young woman was talking about Alzheimer’s. She stressed keeping the brain active and suggested mental exercises to strengthen the mind.
© Dellani Oakes