G Is for Gumshoe

criticized, graded and reviewed. The only subject I liked was music because you could look at the book, though sometimes, of course, you were compelled to stand up and sing all by yourself, which was death. The other kids were even worse than the work itself. I was small for my age, always vulnerable to attack. My classmates were sly and treacherous, given to all sorts of wicked plots they learned from TV. And who would protect me from their villainy? Teachers were no help. If I got upset, they would stoop down to my level and their faces would fill my field of vision like rogue planets about to crash into earth. Looking back on it, I can see how I must have worried them. I was the kind of kid who, for no apparent reason, wept piteously or threw up on myself. On an especially scary day, I sometimes did both. By fifth grade, I was in trouble almost constantly. I wasn't rebellious-I was too timid for that- but I did disobey the rules. After lunch, for instance, I would hide in the girls' rest room instead of going back to class. I longed to be expelled, imagining somehow that I could be free of school forever if they'd just kick me out. All my behavior netted me were trips to the office, or endless hours in a little chair placed in the hall. A public scourging, in effect. My aunt would swoop down on the principal, an avenging angel, raising six kinds of hell that I should be subjected to such abuse. Actually, the first time I got the hall penalty, I was mortified, but after that, I liked it pretty well. It was quiet. I got to be alone. Nobody asked me questions or made me write on the board. Between classes, the other kids hardly looked at me, embarrassed on my behalf.
    "Miss?"
    I glanced up. A woman in a nurse's uniform was staring at me. I focused on my surroundings. I could see now that the corridor was populated with wheel-chairs. Everyone was old and broken and bent. Some stared dully at the floor and some made mewing sounds. One woman repeated endlessly the same quarrelsome request: "Someone let me out of here. Someone let me up. Someone let me out of here…"
    "I'm looking for Agnes Grey."
    "Patient or employee?"
    "A patient. At least she was a couple of months back."
    "Try administration." She indicated the offices to my right. I collected myself, blanking out the sight of the feeble and infirm. Maybe life is just a straight shot from the horrors of grade school to the horrors of the nursing home.
    The administration offices were housed in makeshift quarters where the principal's office had probably been once upon a time. A portion of the large central hallway had been annexed and was now enclosed in glass, providing a small reception area, which was furnished with a wooden bench. I waited at the counter until a woman emerged from the inner office with an armload of files. She caught sight of me and veered in my direction with a public-relations smile. "May I help you?"
    "I hope so," I said. "I'm looking for a woman named Agnes Grey. I understand she was a patient here a few months ago."
    The woman hesitated briefly and then said, "May I ask what this is in connection with?"
    I took a chance on the truth, never guessing how popular I was going to be as a consequence. I gave her my card and then recited my tale of Irene Gersh and how she'd asked me to determine her mother's whereabouts, ending with the oft-repeated query: "Do you happen to know where she is at this point?"
    She blinked at me for a moment. Some interior process caused a transformation in her face, but I hadn't the faintest idea how it related to my request. "Would you excuse me, please?"
    "Sure."
    She moved into the inner office and emerged a moment later with a second woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Elsie Haynes, administrator of the facility. She was probably in her sixties, rotund, with a hairstyle that was whisker-short along the neck and topped by a toupee of ginger-colored curls. This made her face appear too large for her head. She was, however, smiling at me most pleasantly. "Miss Millhone, how very nice," she said, holding out her hands. The handshake consisted of her making a hand sandwich with my right hand as the lunch meat. "I'm Mrs. Haynes, but you must call me Elsie. Now how can we be of help?"
    This was worrisome. I usually don't get such receptions in my line of work. "Nice to meet you," I said. "I'm trying to locate a woman named Agnes Grey. I understand she was transferred here from Pioneers."
    "That's correct. Mrs. Grey