Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split by Kathy Hogan Trocheck
Authors: Kathy Hogan Trocheck
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like a sandlot chump. Where’d you say Pearl went?”
Mel was back all right, Truman realized. Back before his favorite ballplayer died in that 1972 plane crash. He’d heard somewhere that Alzheimer’s affected short-term memory. How short term, he didn’t know. Did Mel remember anything of last night or yesterday?
He chose his words carefully. “Pearl just went for a bite to eat. You’ve been sleeping most of the day. She’s been real worried about you, pal, you not eating and all.”
“The hell you say,” Mel said, snorting. “She won’t give me any food. I told her I was hungry, but she hid the food. I think she ate it all.”
“No, Mel,” Truman said, alarmed. “Pearl wouldn’t do that.”
He brought the tray over to the bed. “Look. Jackleen sent up some lunch. She’s been real worried about you too.”
Through a mouthful of pudding, “Jackleen?”
“The waitress in the dining room,” Truman said. “The girl who always takes good care of us. She went to the track with us last night. Remember?”
Mel wrinkled his brow, then picked up a roll and started buttering it. “The track? I was at a ball game last night. Clemente hit a triple offa Gibson. I won twenty bucks in the office pool.”
“Right,” Truman said, depressed. “You want a cup of coffee?”
By the time Pearl came back, ten minutes later, Mel had drifted off to sleep again.
“Oh,” she said, looking disappointed. “He never woke up?”
“Sure,” Truman said, a little too heartily. “He woke up, talked a little bit about the Pirates, even ate some supper.”
“Thank God,” Pearl said. She looked at her wristwatch. “You better get going to that meeting or all the refreshments will be gone.”
“I’m not going,” Truman said. “If this outfit has already bought the hotel, there’s nothing we can do.”
“You’ve got to go,” Pearl said, her voice rising. “We’ve got to do something. Nobody here can afford to pay the prices they’ll be asking. Where’ll we all go?”
Truman pulled the classified section out of the Sunday paper. “I was going to take this and start calling the apartment for rent ads. Face it, Pearl, it’s too late. They had painters in here yesterday. That means the sale is final.”
She snatched the classifieds away from Truman, trembling with anger and frustration. “There’s got to be something we can do.”
Her anger took Truman by surprise. “You’ve got a home in Pittsburgh, Pearl. It’s not as though you lived here year-round, like me and Ollie.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve talked to my lawyer up home. I’m going to have to sell the house to pay for Mel’s nursing-home fees and medical care.”
“Sell it? Won’t the insurance take care of everything? What about Medicare?”
“Medicare doesn’t cover Alzheimer’s,” she said bitterly. “My lawyer thinks the house should bring enough money to cover the nursing-home bills, but just barely. I can’t afford to live anyplace else, TK.”
She stood there with her arms folded across her chest, glaring, waiting for him to say something.
“I’ll go,” he said reluctantly. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
Chapter ELEVEN
The meeting was already in progress.
Arch Barchie stood at the front of the room, frowning down at a clipboard. At least twenty people were seated side by side in folding chairs. Cookie Jeffcote, the hotel’s leasing agent, was seated in the corner, like a child being punished.
Truman slid into an empty chair in the back row.
An elbow dug into his side. “You’re late.”
It was Jackleen. She was still in her waitress uniform.
“What are you doing here?” Truman whispered.
“You ain’t heard? Those church folks say they’re gonna close up the dining room. Make it into an infirmary or something. It ain’t much of a job, I know, but it’s all I got, and if I can, I need to hang on to it.”
Truman nodded. Up until now he’d thought of the Fountain of Youth buyout as an
Mel was back all right, Truman realized. Back before his favorite ballplayer died in that 1972 plane crash. He’d heard somewhere that Alzheimer’s affected short-term memory. How short term, he didn’t know. Did Mel remember anything of last night or yesterday?
He chose his words carefully. “Pearl just went for a bite to eat. You’ve been sleeping most of the day. She’s been real worried about you, pal, you not eating and all.”
“The hell you say,” Mel said, snorting. “She won’t give me any food. I told her I was hungry, but she hid the food. I think she ate it all.”
“No, Mel,” Truman said, alarmed. “Pearl wouldn’t do that.”
He brought the tray over to the bed. “Look. Jackleen sent up some lunch. She’s been real worried about you too.”
Through a mouthful of pudding, “Jackleen?”
“The waitress in the dining room,” Truman said. “The girl who always takes good care of us. She went to the track with us last night. Remember?”
Mel wrinkled his brow, then picked up a roll and started buttering it. “The track? I was at a ball game last night. Clemente hit a triple offa Gibson. I won twenty bucks in the office pool.”
“Right,” Truman said, depressed. “You want a cup of coffee?”
By the time Pearl came back, ten minutes later, Mel had drifted off to sleep again.
“Oh,” she said, looking disappointed. “He never woke up?”
“Sure,” Truman said, a little too heartily. “He woke up, talked a little bit about the Pirates, even ate some supper.”
“Thank God,” Pearl said. She looked at her wristwatch. “You better get going to that meeting or all the refreshments will be gone.”
“I’m not going,” Truman said. “If this outfit has already bought the hotel, there’s nothing we can do.”
“You’ve got to go,” Pearl said, her voice rising. “We’ve got to do something. Nobody here can afford to pay the prices they’ll be asking. Where’ll we all go?”
Truman pulled the classified section out of the Sunday paper. “I was going to take this and start calling the apartment for rent ads. Face it, Pearl, it’s too late. They had painters in here yesterday. That means the sale is final.”
She snatched the classifieds away from Truman, trembling with anger and frustration. “There’s got to be something we can do.”
Her anger took Truman by surprise. “You’ve got a home in Pittsburgh, Pearl. It’s not as though you lived here year-round, like me and Ollie.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve talked to my lawyer up home. I’m going to have to sell the house to pay for Mel’s nursing-home fees and medical care.”
“Sell it? Won’t the insurance take care of everything? What about Medicare?”
“Medicare doesn’t cover Alzheimer’s,” she said bitterly. “My lawyer thinks the house should bring enough money to cover the nursing-home bills, but just barely. I can’t afford to live anyplace else, TK.”
She stood there with her arms folded across her chest, glaring, waiting for him to say something.
“I’ll go,” he said reluctantly. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
Chapter ELEVEN
The meeting was already in progress.
Arch Barchie stood at the front of the room, frowning down at a clipboard. At least twenty people were seated side by side in folding chairs. Cookie Jeffcote, the hotel’s leasing agent, was seated in the corner, like a child being punished.
Truman slid into an empty chair in the back row.
An elbow dug into his side. “You’re late.”
It was Jackleen. She was still in her waitress uniform.
“What are you doing here?” Truman whispered.
“You ain’t heard? Those church folks say they’re gonna close up the dining room. Make it into an infirmary or something. It ain’t much of a job, I know, but it’s all I got, and if I can, I need to hang on to it.”
Truman nodded. Up until now he’d thought of the Fountain of Youth buyout as an
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