Angels in Heaven

it. Mixed up. Awful. Surprised. Guilty. Relieved
enough to feel guilty about that too.”
    “What else is new?” he said,
dismissing my whole confused emotional state with one contemptuous wave.
“That’s only normal, that is. That you can live with, to be frank, given the
brutal alternative. You know the symptoms by now of Alzheimer’s as well as I
do. It is incurable and progressive, and the patient usually dies within three
to eight years more or less, often from something like pneumonia. Your mother
knows this. We have seen over and over what a devastating effect watching a
loved one die of Alzheimer’s has on the immediate family. While the patient is
still sane, he or she worries about their effect on the family. Later, the
patient often gets paranoid and has delusions of persecution by his or her
family. Try living with that. Try living with a mother who doesn’t even
recognize you anymore.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “It’s already
started.”
    “It’s better she’s here, for everyone
involved. At least she’s in an environment where she’s continually monitored in
case of accident. Wait till you see her flat. Obviously there’s a medical staff
always available—and a pretty good one too. I oughta know, I chose them. She’s
got company when she wants it and can handle it. And there’s a million things
to do here if she wants to. We got a terrific place— the food’s even edible if
you don’t want to cook for yourself. Look around. OK, it’s not Club Med, but a
swimming pool we got, horses we got, tennis, squash, volleyball, bridge,
canasta, poker we got. Nature rambles we got. Bingo. Dancing. Lawn bowling.” He
glanced at the wall clock. “Anything else? I don’t want to rush you, but I got
a croquet game to referee in five minutes.”
    “I didn’t even know croquet had
referees,” I said. “OK. I might as well come out with it. There is one thing. I
feel like a shit talking about my mother and money in the same breath, but
what’s it all cost?”
    He scanned down one page in my mom’s
folder.
    “It’s all paid,” he said. “Two years
in advance.”
    “It can’t be,” I said. “So who paid,
my brother?”
    “Mrs. Daniel,” he said. “Now if you
want to see her, at this time of day she’s usually playing pool with that
little hustler Erwin, so tell her from me to look out.”
    “Are you sure we’re talking about the
same mom?” I said. “Mine doesn’t have a Mexican dollar, and as far as I know,
she’s never had a pool cue in her hand in her life.”
    “See for yourself,” he said, “pool
hall’s one building over, next to the card room.” He stood up, so did I.
    “What can I say?” I said. “I could
start with thanks, I guess.”
    He waved it away and ushered me out.
    “That way,” he said, pointing.
“Gloria!” he shouted at the receptionist as he strode past her desk. “Hold all
calls! I’m in a vitally important conference over at the croquet court.” He
stopped outside the front door to gaze down at the lady in the rocking chair
and say sternly, “Mrs. Lily Putnam, why do you rock your life away when the sun
shines and the gardens beckon? Arise and walk and see and touch and smell, or
you will waltz alone tonight. I have spoken.” He helped the old lady to her
feet and gave her a gentle push toward the ramp leading from the porch down to
the gardens.
    I located the building next door
without too much trouble, went in, passed through the card room, which was
empty except for a lady in a shawl who was laying out some complicated-looking
solitaire, and went on in to the poolroom where that gray-haired mother of mine
was standing by one of the two tables chalking her cue professionally and
pursing her lips as she surveyed her next shot.
    “Four ball in the side,” she said.
The tiny geezer she was playing with, most elegantly attired in a tight-fitting
tan suit and a narrow-brimmed brown fedora, looked my way and slipped me a
wink.
    “Hi, Mom,” I said. She glanced my way
briefly.
    “Hold it down in the peanut gallery,”
she said. She bent over, lined up her shot, and then missed it by a mile.
“Damn!” she said. “I can never make those damn cuts.”
    “There’s a trick to it,” I said,
taking a seat at the side of the room. “I’ll show you sometime.”
    Erwin polished off his last three
balls smoothly, then turned to Mom and said, “That makes it a cool eighty-five
cents you owe me, babe.”
    “Try and get it,” Mom said,