Natural Order by Brian Francis Page B

travesties of her life, tapping each one into the centre of her palm with a crooked finger.
    The staff at the Sunset is terrible. “You get the bottom of the barrel in places like this. The decent ones go work in hospitals.”
    The food in unpalatable. “Today they served that fish. For the second day in a row.”
    Mrs. Ogilvy is insane. “She came up behind me the other day holding her spoon like a dagger.”
    “You can’t stab someone with a spoon,” I reminded her.
    “You can stab with anything if you push hard enough,” she said.
    This morning, a few of the residents are sitting outside their rooms. A sharp smell hits me as I pass the linen bin and my hand instinctively goes to my nose. I pull it away, conscious of the eyes on me. I wouldn’t be able to work with the elderly. Positioning straws into mouths and wiping rear ends and helping people into their backless clothing. I wouldn’t be able to clean off the decay at the end of the day.
    “Nice morning,” I say loudly to a kind-looking woman in a wheelchair. She’s wearing a fuchsia jogging suit. I’ve seen her before.
    “I wouldn’t know,” she replies.
    I pass a whiteboard announcing activities in scrawling red marker. Kraft Korner with Kay! 10 a.m. Classical music hour! 1–2 p.m. Chaplain visit! 3 p.m. So many exclamation marks in one day.
    Mrs. Pender’s room is on the second floor, at the end of the hall. She shares it with Mrs. Ogilvy, who suffered a stroke a few years ago and can communicate only by saying “Whuh-whuh-whuh” in various tones. The door to the room is partly closed. A brown paper acorn is stuck to it with a Scotch tape square. It’s too early for acorns, I think with a frown. We’ve got another month to go before warty gourds start showing up on magazine covers. It strikes me as bad taste, as though the staff is trying to hurry time.
    I knock on the door, push it open and see Mrs. Ogilvy napping in her bed. On the other side of her, Mrs. Pender sits hunched over in her wheelchair, white hair hanging down, draping her face. She looks so fragile. Although I’d never openly admit to it, I feel we have something in common. I don’t think she knows about my John. She’s never asked me any questions and I’m more comfortable keeping my personal life to myself. But there have been a few quiet moments between us when the words bubbled inside my mouth.
    I lost my son, too .
    But to bring it up would only open the door to questions. So I say nothing. She doesn’t talk about Freddy anyway. Instead, he stares silently at us from the framed black-and-white picture she keeps on top of her dresser. Our sons never get old behind their glass enclosures.
    “Mrs. Pender?” I say softly. Her head slowly turns to the side. Eyeglasses and a nose poke through the curtain of hair. “How are you doing?”
    “I lost a tooth this morning.”
    “How did you lose it?” I sit down on the bed.
    “The biscuits. Hard as rocks. I’d like to go have a word with that cook, I’ll tell you that much. I thought coloured people were good at biscuits.”
    A barrette dangles from her hair. She’s a ghoulish little girl.
    “I saw a sign in the hallway. There’s a garden party tomorrow. You should go.”
    “I don’t care about a garden party.”
    Sometimes I mention things to get a reaction. Garden parties. Kay and her kraft sessions. Christmas carol singalongs in the auditorium. All the social delicacies she can’t stand. It gives me perverse pleasure to watch her flare up in disgust and anger. Perhaps it’s my revenge for the headaches.
    “Are you sure? It’s supposed to be a beautiful day.”
    She clamps a hand over her wrist and stares straight ahead. So, she’s in fine form today. I glance at the clock next to her bed. Ten minutes tops. Then I’ll say something about having to pick up groceries.
    “Whuh.”
    “Hello, Mrs. Ogilvy. Nice to see you again.”
    “Don’t bother with her,” Mrs. Pender says. “She’s as stupid as they