T Is for Trespass

booth at the back, I perched on a barstool and waited for Rosie to emerge from the kitchen. Her husband, William, poured me a glass of Chardonnay and set it down in front of me. Like his brother, Henry, he’s tall, but much more formal in his attire, favoring highly polished lace-up shoes while Henry prefers flip-flops.
    William had removed his suit jacket and he’d made cuffs out of paper toweling, secured with rubber bands, to save the snow white sleeves of his dress shirt.
    I said, “Hey, William. We haven’t chatted in ages. How’re you doing?”
    “I’ve a bit of chest congestion, but I’m hoping to avoid a full-blown upper-respiratory infection,” he said. He took a packet from his pants pocket and popped a tablet in his mouth, saying, “Zinc lozenges.”
    “Good deal.”
    William was a bellwether of minor illnesses, which he took very seriously lest they carry him off. He wasn’t as bad as he’d once been, but he kept a keen eye out for anyone’s imminent demise. “I hear Gus is in a bad way,” he remarked.
    “Bruised and battered, but aside from that, he’s fine.”
    “Don’t be too sure,” he said. “A fall like that can lead to complications. A fellow might seem fine, but once he’s laid up in bed, pneumonia sets in. Blood clot’s another risk, not to mention a staph infection, which can take you out just like that.”
    The snap of William’s fingers put an end to any misplaced optimism on my part. Gus was as good as buried as far as William was concerned. William stood at the ready when it came to death. In large part, Rosie had cured him of his hypochondria in that her culinary zeal generated sufficient indigestion to keep his imaginary ills at bay. He still leaned toward depression and found there was nothing quite like a funeral to provide a temporary emotional boost. Who could fault the man? At his age, he’d be hard-hearted indeed not to experience a little lift at the sight of a newly departed friend.
    I said, “I’m more worried about what happens when Gus gets home. He’ll be out of commission for a couple of weeks.”
    “If not longer.”
    “Right. We were hoping Rosie knew of a family member who’d agree to look after him.”
    “I wouldn’t count on relatives. The man is eighty-nine years old.”
    “The same age as you, and you’ve got four living siblings, three of them in their nineties.”
    “But we’re from hardier stock. Gus Vronsky smoked most of his life. Still does for all we know. Your best bet is a home health care service like the Visiting Nurses Association.”
    “You think he has health insurance?”
    “I doubt it. He probably didn’t imagine he’d live long enough to enjoy it, but he’ll be covered by Medicaid or Medicare.”
    “I suppose so.”
    Rosie came out of the kitchen through the swinging door, backside first. She had a dinner plate in each hand, one heaped with pan-fried pork steak and stuffed cabbage rolls, and the other with Hungarian beef stew over egg noodles. She delivered the entrees to the day drinkers at the far end of the bar. I was sure they’d been there since noon and she might well be comping their dinner in hopes of sobering them up before they staggered home.
    She joined us at the bar and I filled her in briefly on the nature of our concerns about Gus. “Has a great-niece,” she said, promptly. “She hasn’t seen him in years so she’s very fond of him.”
    “Really. That’s great. Does she live here in town?”
    “New York.”
    “That won’t do him any good. The doctor won’t release him unless he has someone to look after him.”
    Rosie waved the notion aside. “Put in nursing home. Is what I did with my sister…”
    William leaned forward. “…who died soon afterward.”
    Rosie ignored him. “Is a nice place. Where Chapel crosses Missile.”
    “What about his niece? Do you have any idea how I might get in touch with her?”
    “He has her name in a book he keeps in his desk.”
    “Well, that’s a start,” I said.

    When the alarm went off Tuesday morning at 6:00, I dragged my sorry butt out of bed and pulled on my Sauconys. I’d slept in my sweats, which saved me one step in my newly inaugurated morning ritual. While I was brushing my teeth, I stared at myself in the mirror with despair. During the night, my errant hair had formed a cone on top that I had to dampen with water and flatten with my palm.
    I locked my front door and tied my house key into the lace of one running shoe. As I