05 September 2010
 
As the Raven Flies


(Potemkin Village under gray skies. Photo Socotra)

It was a day that split me down to my gut. Started with a hearty breakfast of lies and a road trip to hell.
 
Mom expect me at ten, I had told her eleven, and I split the difference, pulling up at Potemkin Village with palpitations a little after ten thirty. I rapped on the door, got no response and opened with trepidation. Rave was sitting on a pad on the couch, sans pantaloons, looking at the commemorative book Anook put together after his brother’s death.
 
Mom was sprawled on the big bed in the adjoining room. I walked over and sat down in the armchair and Raven handed me the book. I looked at it, and opened it at random to a copy of a letter my Uncle had written of a novel commercial airline flight in 1927.
 
The aircraft had canvas covering, and Uncle was the only paying passenger, the other people on the aircraft being reporters and pilots.
 
I used my best radio voice, and Raven seemed interested for a while and then went to sleep. So, with the seniors dozing, I found a copy of the New Yorker and leafed through it, looking at cartoons, and then, the place still silent, went down to the desk to see how the bus service worked.
 
It seemed reasonable. There is a bus on the hour, Monday, Wed and Fridays, and you simply tell the desk where you want to go and they take you there. Two Saturdays a month they run the same schedule. It is not what I would want, but then I am still of the opinion that I can safely operate and motor vehicle.
 
Of course, that is the root of the problem. Mom is, too.
 
I came back up with the information and Mom was stirring, concerned that I was late. I told her I had been there for an hour while she slept.
 
The plan had been to go for a car trip, since Mom said they had not been out of the apartment in weeks. That might have been true of her, but not Raven, since he was always alert for the opportunity to take a wander.
 
We ran right into the lunch hour at the Village, and I got the seniors down to the “B” dingin room, which was the only one open for lunch. I joined them for a salad; they had the split pea soup, turkey sandwiches and chips. Raven was more interested in the desert, which featured a choice between birthday cake and custard pie. We got him the cake, though I suspected it was a mistake, since the slice was mostly icing and pure sugar.
 
I had no idea what the consequences of that might be. Eventually, we concluded the repast, got Raven in the bathroom and prepared for a trip.
 
I decided to motor south to Boyne City, where there was supposed to be a Labor Day car show, but it was an ugly day with gray skies and spritzing rain. I figured heading south would keep us away from the house thing, since that was the lie de jour, that the exterminators had to bomb the place again against the carpenter ants, which posed a dangerous infestation that could cause the house to collapse.
 
Mom seemed to buy that, and observed that she had never been to Boyne City before. I nodded. Every day is a new one at Potemkin Village.
 
It was a pretty good trip as far as Boyne Mountain. I tooled around the compound at the bottom of the summer-grassy ski slopes and Raven was engaged, once even completing a full sentence, something like “I was bitching at your mother yesterday…” and then trailed off.
 
Then things went downhill. He fell fast asleep, and continued that way for the rest of the trip, though rainy Boyne City and along the lovely shores of Lake Charlevoix.
 
From the backseat Mom asked if we could stop by the house, and I told her that there was no point since we couldn’t go in. My stomach knotted. I dropped them at the front door to the Village as the skies opened. I had to get away for a minute. I got Raven out of the car and over to the door as I got drenched because some other idiot was blocking the drive dealing with his own elderly.
 
“I will be back for dinner, Mom,” I said, since I was not the idiot blocking traffic, and roared away with my heart in my mouth.
 
The hour on my own was palliative. There was not enough time to do anything constructive, though, and I checked e-mail and did some heavy sighing.
 
I went back to Potemkin Village to have a drink with them before walking them down to dinner. I was not planning on eating, but really was looking forward to the drink. I put on my happy face as I approached their door, rapped on the knocker and went in. Mom was on the bed, and startled to see me. I looked around and did not see Raven.
 
“Where is Dad,” I asked. The bathroom door was closed, and I assumed he was in there and got out glasses and ice to pour some fruit juice for them and vodka for me. Mom peeked in the door, and the light was out.
 
Raven was missing.
 
I can't quite convey the anxiety of not seeing him in the place- and was then doing a floor-by-floor search for him. Failed. Got in the car and drove around the property twice to make sure he was not striding out boldly with his anniversary picture in his hands.
 
Failed to find him in the immediate proximity of the complex and conducted an up-and-down-the-hill cruise in the Bluesmobile in full law enforcement mode. Then back to the scene of the crime. He had entered #324 instead of #336, and staff had been called. I saw his white and gray jersey being marched down the hall by two nice ladies in green scrubs.
 
Mom, thankfully was still around and not on the loose.
 
I poured them cranberry juice cocktails and put out nuts and pretzels, as though nothing had happened, though Raven was thoroughly energized. He did not know me. Mom did, and Raven asked why we were talking about what we were.
 
I glanced at the Rolex and announced that we needed to get to dinner. We got everyone to their feet and went down to the “B” dining room on the second floor. We were seated with Jerry the loon, as usual, and I slid the salad around in front of Raven so he would not be so confused and put the dressing on it for him.
 
I unwrapped the blue napkin from the assortment of cutlery; salad and dinner fork, blunt knife and comforting spoon. I put the napkin in his lap and leaned the other way and kissed Mom.
 
"Gotta go," I said. "Dinner is not free for me."
 
Mom understands that, and she is still with me enough to know the value of a dollar, though I have been merrily spending hers the last few days, taking over her affairs.
 
She doesn't now that, of course and still trusts me at the moment.
 
Jesus.

I lied again as I prepared to leave and said they had summoned me back to Washington early. I could use a day or two to try to figure out what I have to do without driving around aimlessly in Northern Michigan.
 
I hope we don't get bounced out of this place. The next stop on the Oblivion Express is Boyd's, a lock down facility just up the road. Mom just wants to go home, and it no longer exists.

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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