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September 30, 2024

Angel of WTF

By Patrick Sweeney

Billie evidently slept through the explosion that gutted a segment of the south wing. Some serious sleeping, but – bad at switching gears after consistently hectic days – she was still working off a deficit. She couldn’t make out anything from the top-floor dormer vantage, but a shell had pierced the roof and demolished several rooms beneath it. That area would be inaccessible for months, with construction moving at a crawl only when it was safe to proceed. Somehow, no one was hurt and it’s not an essential wing, but she had so many charges to shelter now that she felt the screws tightening.

About the daily experience you’d expect of wartime, but it could have been vastly worse than this annoyance. A blessing that none of the staff or refugees were there when the bomb hit. She never really got a handle on how this war came about. Something to do with ideologies and geographies and kinship and mendacity and rascality. Coke versus Pepsi. Monkeys versus donkeys.

While the freshly- limited quarters were far from cramped, not having the full run of her own place was galling. Acclimating to the peasants had been tough but that’s what you’ve got to do in a crisis when you’ve got so much room and they’re certainly docile enough.

The staff had explained that giving succor to actual combatants – and the definition had expanded grotesquely – would get the place razed with them all in it. Anyone but the frail and elderly had to be turned away at the threshold.

Billie patrolled the premises constantly, rarely breaking stride despite the obstacle course. The jumble of gurneys, wheelchairs and walkers had a way of clogging intersections, but Billie could gently break up a snarl in a flash and being steered clear qualified as a small thrill for those immobiles who even noticed.

With her husband Winstan away for so long and the social calendar very much on hold, having a horde of grateful strays to care for was a welcome distraction and justified keeping staff on. Her legal tender wouldn’t be scrap paper for a while yet. As long as her sneakers held out – no question of stamina – she scurried along, puttering purposefully but things kept getting scrambled or misplaced and had to be sorted out or tracked down.

Her staff was right there shoveling against the same tide. Young women “of color” in matching grey tunics and slacks, “Team Billie”, showed up for their shifts and ran errands in town as if the war were just a distant clatter. The handful of bunk beds set aside for them were rarely at full capacity. The refugee traffic they managed was a sobering reminder of the conflict’s toll but some ATMs and supermarkets had persevered, keeping panic at bay.

The crew was fundamentally West Indian, mostly Jamaican. They were robust enough to compensate for the virtual absence of men (one wasn’t supposed to say that) and very well-spoken (or that). Their dialect (patwah) was just this side of a foreign language, but they translated lavishly when asked. She could make more of an effort to retain some of this but there was so much else to manage. Far better helping them keep track of all the keys if she could ever puzzle them out herself.

Most of the team went about their business with quiet focus, sometimes giggling and patwahing amongst themselves during a lull. Millicent though traipsed after Billie like a puppy, eager to learn and bringing out a mentorly streak in Billie as well as a deli counter’s worth of hamminess. Other than a few heavily shaded patios on the north and west sides, grounds safety was limited to a three-sided courtyard largely given over to Billie’s “victory garden”; zucchini, eggplant, cabbage, peppers, garlic, thyme and more. Only Millie was allowed to help there.

Billie was already energized by a bee or three in her bonnet and had her verbal tic underway. As she caught wind of something appalling, dismaying or just plain not up to snuff, “Tsk” was the default substitute for a running commentary. Her other tic was darting to the nearest window whenever a car motor was audible. It would be easy to lose hope on Winstan returning safely after so long out in the world, but he’d promised to come back, and he’d always been resourceful. No longer the feisty kid who’d finagled a regional chain of auto parts stores, but sharp and connected. And devoted.

Her tsk meter always revved up in the library, but Millicent was there and overdue to be enlisted for the never-ending task of unscrambling the shelves, “People who get advanced degrees in managing libraries and bookstores host contests for best shelving system. Way, way beyond overkill. Alphabetically by title is all you need. Topics just bog you down and who’s to say whether something is fiction or nonfiction? If you own a book, you know the title. Just like a hutch, though, you need the display to work. Some don’t fit on the shelves and some just don’t look right.”

“How’d this sneak in here?”, she brandished an over-wide brick of a book like a child two-handing a broadsword, “Way too pagey. You’ll need an ace bandage after this one.” Millie was cracking up, perhaps inordinately, over all this, her four-pound keychain jangling merrily. Far too many keys but Millie and select assistants carried them without complaining. They sometimes took a while to retrieve the right one and Billie went keyless. She’d finally conceded that had she insisted on her own set, it would have set this slight elder off-balance, particularly when darting around all those sharp corners.

Maintaining the household – servants don’t organize themselves – and hosting all these unfortunates was challenge enough without the extra ballast. Along with all the clutter were disappearances and misappropriations attributed to some very clever thieves. She was picking up on staff being accused of some of these thefts, but she didn’t get caught up in these matters. For now, there was abundance. The guests and staff were the salt of the earth and bonded by a shared predicament. The downside of the guests’ lethargy and the, frankly, stretched staff was that a disproportionate amount of the tidying up was left to Billie. Some days she could use a steam shovel. Thieves? Sign ‘em up!

The long corridor between common areas was flanked by a picture window looking out onto meadowy bumps of hills resembling a snapshot of gently rolling waves. Along the window, set at 45-degree angles like a strip mall parking lot, was a gapless row of peasants severely slumped in wheelchairs, their heads lolling at such sharp angles that they may have needed vertebrae removed to accomplish the broken accordion effect. The sun pooled on their faces and long stretches of necks – no crepey skin here – as if they were getting their dose of photosynthesis. So very docile. She would sometimes scan their exposed areas for sprouting blossoms.

One could picture this batch as a chorus line, maybe a chorus line that had been put through its paces and was fully depleted until the Adderall shots. The servant girls called them the Rockettes. Awfully insensitive towards those who had gone through so much suffering and upheaval, but they did say it with genuine affection, and they had a deep reserve of patience with the helpless, so she’d stopped trying to correct them.

Hustling past these folks pitched forward to the point of contortion in their wheelchairs, Billie sometimes wondered whether they had souls. That couldn’t be right. It may be that their souls had taken a head start, just advance scouts.

Certain of the peasants had visitors from the combat zone, family members just touching base for a bit. They knew not to overstay, rarely even removing their coats so they could flee as needed and weren’t mistaken for residents if there was a raid. Other than a few self-contained vestibule areas with bright orange Maginot lines, the guests would visit through a window at ground floor level, using meeting apps to be audible. Billie or an assistant would hover nearby, ostensibly to field questions but also to monitor their behavior. It was nice for Billie to have young folks around, though, particularly children.

She would scare up a bouquet or get some sandwiches from one of the kitchens. Or a dollar bill, always a crowd pleaser. She kept up a valiant effort to be a good host, even to the families huddled in the crevices between sightlines. Her small kindnesses were sincerely appreciated, albeit awkwardly, by folks so touched that they seemed dumbfounded. The staff was inordinately alarmed by her token offerings, calling them her mayhem spikes. It wouldn’t be so chaotic if they wouldn’t try to stop her. This level of hospitality is how she was brought up and she’d be good goddamned if she didn’t maintain that standard. Still there was pushback. Only Millicent dared, “Don’t trouble these folks. They’re going through a lot and just need their privacy.”

“I know the drill. I won’t linger.”

“Wrong! You’ll start talking about Winstan, how he’s been away but will absolutely be back soon and maybe they’ve seen him. Oh, here’s a photograph. Here’s another. You can’t be doing that!”

“Whatever!” Billie was switching wings again because a familiar crunching sound had wafted down from the ballroom. The young girls couldn’t pick it out of the white noise that enveloped the corridors, but every click, hum and whirr denoted something. This time, it was Mortimer mid-PTSD eruption in the game room adjoining the ballroom. He had found where the tool chest was stashed and was taking a claw hammer to the plastic figurines of a chess set, the fifth replacement since Morty had set out on his demolition mission.

Billie was puzzled. This national upheaval had nothing to do with monarchy, not even authoritarian aspirations or class struggle, at least not overtly, so he seemed to have very private reason for this jihad on chess pieces. He did not pull back when Billie reached for the hammer, but he didn’t let go either. A little downward pressure and it rested on the table, still tightly gripped.

“Morty, all these pieces do is tag each other and the tagged ones relax until the next game. There’s no mass-burial, right?”

He shrugged.

“Look, the war is taking a toll on us, but you have your faculties and we need your energy. It’s safe here and we’ll get through this. I’ll set you up with Millie. Tell her how you could pitch in. I’ll make sure she’s responsive,” Mortimer slid from bewildered to distressed and she cradled his head, “So, how about we pick through these chess sets to make one complete batch.”

They salvaged enough pieces to populate a board but nearly all were white pawns. Undaunted, Billie said, “We’ll come back later with a label gun or enamel paints or something. Then we can write up instructions and maybe play a match or two, a dollar a round?”

He mustered an eager nod. She gave his shoulder a squeeze and – world peace restored – headed off to extinguish more fires. Mortimer pocketed the remaining pair of royal couples he’d kept in his pocket for a quiet session with the welding kit he’d stashed in the basement.

Buoyed by her mastery of her world, Billie rounded the corner to a possible turning point,

“Billie, you haven’t seen the catheters?” Millicent asked.

“What are those?”

“Kind of a long tube with a narrow plastic tip.”

“Beige?”

“I suppose.”

“Bottom shelf left of the dishwasher.”

“Pantry?! Patients need them to pee.”

“They looked like decanters. Cheap ones but what with the crisis and all.”

“Leave the sorting to us.”

“You clearly need help.”

“Not your concern. What about the urinals?”

“Now you’re just making up words.”

“Plastic portable urinal, yeah long like a …"

A few teammates had gathered by now, “Like a bong!”

“I’ve been very gracious with you all, but this is insubordination!”

“Mother BIllie, we’ve all got to work together to get through this. We’ll just coordinate on organizing storage. And, of course, you have final veto on everything.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

“But we can’t be working at cross purposes. There’s lots of special equipment here to take care of all the sick refugees. If you’re not completely sure of what something is, go ahead and ask us. When the war’s over, you’re the one getting the statue, but it’s a team effort for Team Billie, right?”

“You’re right I suppose. I’ll be more careful and collaborative with classifying. And your thingies are stacked in the garden shed. I thought they were planters for seedlings. “

“Fairly wild guess, my dear.”

“I’ve been using them. The built-in handle is great.”

The next morning, Billie noticed some of the staff peeling off masks as they cleared the parking lot. She pigeonholed Millie who explained that the masks were standard issue for gas attacks. “You won’t be needing them in here.”

“But I do go out!”

“Well, you shouldn’t. If you did have a mask, you’d just be getting into more trouble.”

“It’s called hosting!”

“Roastingtoastingboastingcoasting! You want to be a martyr to etiquette?”

“The character of a war is shaped by how the social fabric is preserved.”

“The fabric’s gone! They’ll shoot you and the visitors and then barrack troops here without you to stop them. Where does that leave us girls? And your peasants? We’re all counting on you to watch out for us.”

Soon, another cluster of forlorn visitors was milling by the courtyard gazebo in need of proper welcoming and the coast was clear. Billie pulled a fat wad of bills from her nearest purse and chased down the florist who was blithely pushing his cart down the corridor as if the hounds of war were off frolicking with their bunny pals. She spread an array of gladiolas, chrysanthemums and periwinkles on a deacon’s bench and set to counting out her payment.

The size of the bills was off, the dominant colors were pastels, there was an array of odd architecture and symbols and – topping it all off – appliqued strips of silver foil, a punchline to the funny money. The floor gave out under her faith in humanity. Some damn refugee had replaced her currency with boardgame bucks. Trembling with rage, she grabbed the unattended house intercom, got a feedback jolt then started in with, “That’s it! I’ve been too patient with you people and now you rob me! Out! Out!”

The new servant girl – the only one who’d dare – yanked her away from the microphone, “Billie, why are you doing this?”

“Look what the goddamn refugees put in my purse. My home is no longer secure!”

“These are Euros, European currency that’s actually worth more than the dollar. You got them from someone else’s purse.”

“What was it doing on my bed?”

“Your room is down the other hallway.”

“They’re all my rooms. Don’t forget who’s cutting your paycheck!”

“Don’t you know! You’re just another patient here, one of 119.”

A few of the staff had gathered now, none disputing the novice, though someone stage- whispered “Tactless, child”.

They had that sorrowful look of impotent concern as if to say, “Really feeling for ya but nothing useful worth attempting here.” Millie, rarely out of sight for so long was back by Billie’s side with a palm on her shoulder but silent.

Billie was overdue for a sharp retort. Absent that, she reached deep, “You frigging orangutans! You slobbering beasts! You...” She had slammed into a wall of chagrin. She did not speak like that. She did not think like that. And yet it got verbalized. A distant refrigerator buzz punctuated the silence. Her face had grown slack. Its right half continued the descent, like a paraffin mask leaning into a heat lamp. She tilted forward and Millicent caught her waist, “Billie, what’s wrong?”

“Genggg flarrrs.”

A wheelchair slid under her, and the seatbelt was cinched. A thumbprint-sized card pass was selected from one of those damned prop keychains and opened a panel leading into a warren of examination rooms. Someone was explaining the CT scan and someone else was being dispatched to find the Activase. Neither term registered with her but she was present enough to delight in an early unveiling of the new south wing.

Millicent tried to jostle Billie’s lopsided smile into symmetry when she realized that she could kiss her monthly stipend from Winstan for keeping Billie out of mischief a sweet goodbye. Almost worth it to be able to drop the fiction of a raging civil war she’d maintained to limit patients’ Covid exposure.

A billie-sized vacancy had opened on the picture window chorus line. No introductions needed. The spot got at least indirect sunlight for most daylight hours. Folks would either ring for help or roust themselves and roll off if they needed to moan or hum. The staff had withheld the corridor’s other nickname, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” not so much busted as otherly functioning. With her throat angling for more of the sun’s warmth, what did it matter that she had no sunscreen or that the glare was aggravating her cataracts?

Her beach blanket’s fringe perched on sand ground down to a near-silky texture but popping into splendid high relief under her new zoom lens. The beach’s shell fragments, silica, coral, garnet, crystal, epidote, agate and jasper resembled a vast candy assortment forming an opulent carpet of colors, textures, and elaborate shapes. The segments had arrayed without even a trace of mandala symmetry, every breeze a remix.

Winstan lounged within reach, bronzing superbly. Retirement suited him. Meanwhile, the furtive visitor shadows skimming just over the window frame registered as passing puffball clouds. Sumptuous beach day.








Article © Patrick Sweeney. All rights reserved.
Published on 2024-09-30
Image(s) are public domain.
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