Big Mama was not surprised when I told her I had work across town. I always do when I am in the Little Village By the Bay. She thinks it is part of The Plan, in which I have a significant role. I have discovered that I am a Team Lead, in fact, part of the orchestration of everything that happens in the Building.

It is a bit of a mystery, but I play along. The Plan is comprised of the astonished nexus of the movie on television, the large print thrillers that she leafs through while seated on the couch, and speculation on the other residents of Potemkin Village she can observe at lunch.

When I breezed in I found the little box that Carla had provided to give Big Mama something to open for Christmas. I had no idea what was in it, and was surprised to see a nice little holiday scarf with Santas, bells and reindeer. She put it on immediately and then was done with the holiday.

It was a tough Christmas Luncheon. It was the holiday, of course, and Special Agent Carla was not on hand to look out for Big Mama. We went down to lunch and discovered that she had been placed near the window with a silent couple. Alice was hunched over with calcium loss, and he was wearing a ball-cap with the words Mullet Lake on the front with a leaping trout. He had enormous eyeglasses pushed up to rest prominently on his forehead.

Hazel and Mad Pat rounded out the lunch, which had some spectacular moments. Hazel was quiet and kind, as always, wearing a holiday sweater and a tentative demeanor. Mad Pat was her feisty self.

There was some delay in trotting out her plate of boiled ham and steamed carrots, and Alice reached out to touch her, prompting Mad Pat to bark: “Keep your hands off me, God Dammit.”

Big Mama did not approve of that sort of remark in the Dining Room, and I scooted her to the left, toward Hazel, and made more room for Mad Pat so that Alice could not get to her so easily.

Mad Pat’s delusions are subtle. She has a small moustache and wisps of beard, and her white hair is a hurrah’s nest. “Merry Christmas,” I said, attempting to divert her attention from Alice’s questing hands.

“Today?” she asked. “Crap, I need to call my parents in Detroit.”

“That is great, Pat, I know they would appreciate it. It is good that you still have them. How old are they now, like 130?”

Big Mama did not care overmuch for her lunch, which appeared to suck from what I could tell. Her entrée was some sort of ravioli in a thin white sauce with some boiled new potatoes and carrots. She kept trying to feed me, concerned that there was nothing on the table before me. Eventually she picked at the rich devil’s food cake with topping and some sort of cherry drizzle, and we decided that lunch was done.

Back in the apartment, I explained that I had only one delivery to make, and that I would be right back and we would take a nice drive or something when I got back.

She didn’t like it, but said she would be on the couch waiting for me.

It is always a relief to get out of the place, and I lit up a smoke as I walked away from the building toward the rental Dodge. I had not idea what to be expecting of Raven, since he slept through most of Visit Two, and how he would be today was a complete mystery.

I pulled into the parking lot at The Bluffs and stuck the handicapped placard on the rear-view mirror. I punched the access code into the outer door and walked in to discover the major holiday meal was in progress. Apparently those residents who have family in the area can “host” them in the multi-purpose space behind the receptionist desk, and there were dozens of kids running around the usual suspects doing their routines.

I am reminded a lot of the repetitive behavior of the animals at the San Diego Zoo, since some of the bears have actually worn patches of fur off from touching the edge of their little pool so often in exactly the same place.

Raven was not in his room, so I dumped my crap on the rocking chair and took his bock and a bag with Santa on the side to go find him.

He was asleep, just like the day before, but his eyes came wide open as I put the box on his lap. He did not say anything in greeting, but shook my hand as he always does in our secret grip.

I opened the present in front of him. It was the Texaco model airplane of the season, the 19th issue. He used to like them a lot. This one was a nice replica of the 1930 Travel Aire Mystery Ship in the corporate colors of the Texas Company.

“This is the one that Doug Davis flew in the Thompson Cup Races at Cleveland. You used to go to the air races with your brother Jim. in 1929. This baby beat all comers, including the military guys.” There was no spark of recognition in his eyes, which I noticed for some reason appear to be turning blue from his normal brown. “Remember?” I said. “Mom used to work for the Texas Company in the Chrysler Building in Manhattan.”

I did not get a reaction to that, and when the model was free of the plastic casing, I put it in his hands. The airplane model is my traditional gift…the Texas Company steel airplane of the year. I have been giving them to him for most of the 19 years of the series. He apparently did not think much of it, and I realized the wing braces for the low wing were going to make it difficult to handle with any precision. I sighed and put it on the enclosed mounting stand and picked up the Santa bag.

It was marked “To Bill from John,” a name that had no association for me. I assume must be on the staff or part of the Emmet County apparatus to care for their elderly dependents in the home. There was some flimsy white paper around a tightly rolled blanket. I pulled it out and unwrapped it on his lap. It was very soft, and colored with green and red and emblazoned with moose and other Up North motifs. I spread it over the beige comforter with which he spends most of the day, and let me tell you, he loved it.

It had his full attention from the moment I spread it over him, like the gauge in the cockpit of an AD-4J Skyraider nearing Bingo fuel state.

I sat watching him fold and gather the soft material in his thin fingers, tugging it up over his Velcro shoes, and ultimately succeeding in getting it over his head.

He was engaged and occupied, so I picked up the model airplane and was going to head back to his room to set it up on top of his stand-alone wardrobe when a woman in a wheelchair asked to speak to me.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said.

She was a highly focused individual, and quite articulate. “My name is Dorothy. I live in that room there,” she said, pointing a finger at the suite across the corridor. “I have to make you aware of something.”

I nodded, a bit uneasy, since there were many things that had been unsettling that day, and several of which I had no need or desire of which to be aware.

Big Mama had asked if we would ever have sex again, which caused me to both marvel that the libido can survive dementia and all the horror of the Oedipus tale to kick in.

“I am your son, Mom, not your husband.”

She nodded contemplatively, and responded that meant it would probably not be a good idea. “I couldn’t agree more, Mom.” So, with that searing my imagination, you can understand I was wary, but trying to be polite.

“I have tried to make Staff aware of what is going on. Look down there.” This time she was pointing at a woman hunched in her wheelchair in front of the glass fire door. “She keeps trying to get out and sooner or later she is going to make it.”

Sure enough, the woman’s shaking hands reached out to press the crash bar a couple times before falling back into her lap. “I think something needs to be done,” Dorothy said. “There are just not enough staff and they are too young.”

“I am sure you are right, Ma’am,” I said, and called for Helena, who was giving Raven a glass of water. She emerged from the television room and I said to her: “Jail break in progress” and pointed down the hall.

“It is alarmed,” said Helena.

“I am alarmed,” I said. “Could she actually get out?”

“We would know quickly,” she said. “But I will get her re-directed to something that doesn’t alarm Dorothy.”

“Thanks,” I said, “and thanks to you Dorothy for your concern.”

I walked up the corridor and set up the Mystery Ship on top of the wardrobe where Raven could see it from his bed but not get it down without reaching up above his shoulders. When I got back to the lounge, I saw that Dad had been a busy boy.

The new cozy sham had been pulled up over his head, and I could see his hands at work under it, tugging and pulling on the fabric in gestures that reminded me of how he carefully coiled the lines on his sailboat.

Best damn gift ever, I thought, and waited for him to start playing peek-a-boo with the new blanket.

“Dad has a new best toy,” I said to Helena.

“Circle of life,” she responded. “Starts and ends the same way.”

“Boy,” I said, taking a picture of Raven busily at work with the blanket on my iPad. “Ain’t that the truth. We are all just passengers on the Mystery Ship.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com