this appointment!” wailed Maggie.
“What I can do,” the man said, “is take down your information and leave it for her on her desk in her office.”
“Oh,” said Maggie, “okay. I guess. The argument I wanted to make to Ms. Haze—could I sit down?”
“Turn one of the chairs around.”
“Great. Thanks. I wanted to argue the advantage to the city if the department makes it possible for me to keep my mother at home.”
The man behind the desk wrote Maggie’s facts on a lined yellow pad. “The visiting nurse comes Tuesdays, but we’ve maxed out on the four-hour, four-afternoons-a-week caregiver. She was no great shakes, but she came; she was okay.”
“It’s tough,” the man said. His teeth were terrible but something not unsympathetic lurked about his mouth.
“Rehab had taught my mom to put her stockings and shoes on without having to bend.”
“They’re good,” the man said. “Come a long way teaching the old people to do for themselves.”
Maggie said, “I can sleep on the couch in my mom’s room. When she wakes and starts putting on her stockings and her shoes, I get up and tell her, Mom, it’s two o’clock, middle of the night. She shakes her head. We laugh, get her back into her bed. Twenty minutes later she’s putting her stockings and her shoes on. I get up …”
“Which you can do for one night, two nights,” the man said, “but you can’t be up night after night.”
Maggie said, “So, if you could put in a request for me, for someone to sleep over every other night—say three nights a week, I think that I can manage.”
“Yes, well, no, I can’t do that,” the man behind the desk said. “Ms. Cloudy Haze—Cloudy is what we call her in the office—is the associate in charge of night nursing. You’ll need to make an appointment because she’s not in her office.”
“So can you make the appointment for me?”
“Well, no. Ms. Brooks is the associate that takes care of Cloudy’s calendar.”
Maggie said, “I eventually got a Mr. Warren on the phone, and he made the appointment for today.”
“That was me,” said the man behind the desk. “That was on the first of this month—which explains why your appointment didn’t register—when Kastel Street was one of seven self-administrating local offices, before they reorganized usinto a single citywide department under a new administrative czar whose mandate is to rid the department of the inefficiencies and inequalities that had crept into the system since the reorganization, in the Nineties, of the single citywide department, riddled with inequities and inefficiencies, into seven self-administrating local offices, but let me check for you if Ms. Brooks is at her desk in her office.”
“Thank you.”
The man’s smile was not unpleasant. “Nope. Not in her office. If this is Ms. Brooks’s field day seeing clients in their homes she wouldn’t be even coming in to the office. But,” the man tapped what he had written on the yellow pad, “as I said, I can put your request on Cloudy’s desk for you.”
“Mr. Warren, would you—Mr. Warren, please, let me take your notes and put them on Ms. Cloudy’s desk myself, so I’ll feel as if I’ve been here and got something accomplished?”
“What the heck, you go on and do it!” said the man behind the desk, who wasn’t a bad sort. “Around the corner, turn left. Her name is on the door.”
With Mr. Warren’s notes in her hand, Maggie stood in the door of Ms. Cloudy Haze’s office and took in the paper nightmare—paper stacks, towers of papers, wire baskets of in-papers and out-papers. The stapler gave Maggie the idea: From her wallet, between a snapshot of Jeff with David and a snapshot of baby Steven, Maggie took a photo of her mother and stapled it to Mr. Warren’s notes and walkedaround to the front of Ms. Cloudy’s desk. Maggie’s idea was to place her mother’s face where Cloudy’s eyes, as she seated herself in her chair, could not help
“What I can do,” the man said, “is take down your information and leave it for her on her desk in her office.”
“Oh,” said Maggie, “okay. I guess. The argument I wanted to make to Ms. Haze—could I sit down?”
“Turn one of the chairs around.”
“Great. Thanks. I wanted to argue the advantage to the city if the department makes it possible for me to keep my mother at home.”
The man behind the desk wrote Maggie’s facts on a lined yellow pad. “The visiting nurse comes Tuesdays, but we’ve maxed out on the four-hour, four-afternoons-a-week caregiver. She was no great shakes, but she came; she was okay.”
“It’s tough,” the man said. His teeth were terrible but something not unsympathetic lurked about his mouth.
“Rehab had taught my mom to put her stockings and shoes on without having to bend.”
“They’re good,” the man said. “Come a long way teaching the old people to do for themselves.”
Maggie said, “I can sleep on the couch in my mom’s room. When she wakes and starts putting on her stockings and her shoes, I get up and tell her, Mom, it’s two o’clock, middle of the night. She shakes her head. We laugh, get her back into her bed. Twenty minutes later she’s putting her stockings and her shoes on. I get up …”
“Which you can do for one night, two nights,” the man said, “but you can’t be up night after night.”
Maggie said, “So, if you could put in a request for me, for someone to sleep over every other night—say three nights a week, I think that I can manage.”
“Yes, well, no, I can’t do that,” the man behind the desk said. “Ms. Cloudy Haze—Cloudy is what we call her in the office—is the associate in charge of night nursing. You’ll need to make an appointment because she’s not in her office.”
“So can you make the appointment for me?”
“Well, no. Ms. Brooks is the associate that takes care of Cloudy’s calendar.”
Maggie said, “I eventually got a Mr. Warren on the phone, and he made the appointment for today.”
“That was me,” said the man behind the desk. “That was on the first of this month—which explains why your appointment didn’t register—when Kastel Street was one of seven self-administrating local offices, before they reorganized usinto a single citywide department under a new administrative czar whose mandate is to rid the department of the inefficiencies and inequalities that had crept into the system since the reorganization, in the Nineties, of the single citywide department, riddled with inequities and inefficiencies, into seven self-administrating local offices, but let me check for you if Ms. Brooks is at her desk in her office.”
“Thank you.”
The man’s smile was not unpleasant. “Nope. Not in her office. If this is Ms. Brooks’s field day seeing clients in their homes she wouldn’t be even coming in to the office. But,” the man tapped what he had written on the yellow pad, “as I said, I can put your request on Cloudy’s desk for you.”
“Mr. Warren, would you—Mr. Warren, please, let me take your notes and put them on Ms. Cloudy’s desk myself, so I’ll feel as if I’ve been here and got something accomplished?”
“What the heck, you go on and do it!” said the man behind the desk, who wasn’t a bad sort. “Around the corner, turn left. Her name is on the door.”
With Mr. Warren’s notes in her hand, Maggie stood in the door of Ms. Cloudy Haze’s office and took in the paper nightmare—paper stacks, towers of papers, wire baskets of in-papers and out-papers. The stapler gave Maggie the idea: From her wallet, between a snapshot of Jeff with David and a snapshot of baby Steven, Maggie took a photo of her mother and stapled it to Mr. Warren’s notes and walkedaround to the front of Ms. Cloudy’s desk. Maggie’s idea was to place her mother’s face where Cloudy’s eyes, as she seated herself in her chair, could not help
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