she is a little more open-minded than her husband when it comes to real estate prospects for the kids. They can’t afford to be choosy.
And, speaking of Mt. Lebanon, Earl clicks on a property located not far from the house his wife grew up in. Five bedrooms, four baths, nice covered porch, but with a tiny kitchen. It does not have a garage, but as none of the Cool People own a car—or even have a driver’s license, for that matter—that is of little importance. They would probably need to store a lawn mower, but they could get a shed for that.
They spend the entire afternoon looking at properties online and discussing each home’s pros and cons while Earl fits pieces into his jigsaw puzzle. Most of the cons are related to price. It seems that a suitable house, not more than fifteen minutes’ drive from the Formans’ own Jeffersonville place, could be bought for about four hundred-thousand dollars. Properties could be had for a bit less if they are willing to look either closer to the city or in the outermost suburbs.
With that bit of research out of the way, it is time to address other costs associated with an assisted living situation. Only one of the six Cool People requires an actual round-the-clock nurse, but it is still an expense that would have to be taken into account by the whole group. The idea is to find a live-in aide who could not only care for Wendell on a daily basis, but who could also handle the minor but frequent complaints of the other residents as well. Such a person would need to have suitable experience with Down syndrome and be licensed by the state, as well as have a clear criminal record and a background placing them in the company of saints. Easy to define, but a bit more difficult to find. Lois started asking around at St. Martin’s-in-the-Field, thinking some of the elderly members of her congregation might be able to point her in the direction of home healthcare workers. Old Mr. Griffin gave her his nurse’s number, but Lois threw it in the kitchen’s trashcan as soon as Mr. Griffin had gotten his coffee and walked away. His “nurse,” a young blonde woman with an overinflated head to match her chest, was the subject of much gossip in the church’s fellowship hall. No one had come right out and questioned the woman’s qualifications, but there was always an unspoken speculation regarding exactly what her profession was.
Having turned up no other prospects at church, Lois pays her father’s old apartment complex a visit, hoping to chat with one of his old poker buddies. Chester Vail is alone in the community room when she walks in. He has his back to her and appears to be talking to an empty corner of the room as she approaches.
“Mr. Vail, how are you? Do you remember—” Lois stops short as Chester turns toward her voice. The right side of his face seems frozen in the process of melting from his skull, his right eye unable to look anywhere but skyward, the right corner of his mouth leaking.
“Loooith,” he says, the left corner of his mouth lifting slightly. Mr. Vail had apparently suffered a stroke sometime in the last few years. Lois thinks what a formidable enemy time itself is, even for a former Navy Seal such as her father’s old friend, Mighty Chester.
She’s right. Time is a hard bastard, it screws us all.
Mr. Vail draws closer to Lois, dragging his right foot, and grabs her in a surprisingly tight left-handed bear hug. Despite her shock and sadness at his time-ravaged appearance, she laughs.
“Mr. Vail, look at you,” she says when she can’t think of anything else. She does her best to smile as she looks him up and down, but she feels a lump in her throat. His golden cardigan sweater is buttoned unevenly, the collar of his white polo underneath sticks straight up on the right, in stark contrast to his pulled taffy facial features. His right arm hangs limply at his side, never again to hold a rifle. Tears cloud Lois’s vision. “How are
And, speaking of Mt. Lebanon, Earl clicks on a property located not far from the house his wife grew up in. Five bedrooms, four baths, nice covered porch, but with a tiny kitchen. It does not have a garage, but as none of the Cool People own a car—or even have a driver’s license, for that matter—that is of little importance. They would probably need to store a lawn mower, but they could get a shed for that.
They spend the entire afternoon looking at properties online and discussing each home’s pros and cons while Earl fits pieces into his jigsaw puzzle. Most of the cons are related to price. It seems that a suitable house, not more than fifteen minutes’ drive from the Formans’ own Jeffersonville place, could be bought for about four hundred-thousand dollars. Properties could be had for a bit less if they are willing to look either closer to the city or in the outermost suburbs.
With that bit of research out of the way, it is time to address other costs associated with an assisted living situation. Only one of the six Cool People requires an actual round-the-clock nurse, but it is still an expense that would have to be taken into account by the whole group. The idea is to find a live-in aide who could not only care for Wendell on a daily basis, but who could also handle the minor but frequent complaints of the other residents as well. Such a person would need to have suitable experience with Down syndrome and be licensed by the state, as well as have a clear criminal record and a background placing them in the company of saints. Easy to define, but a bit more difficult to find. Lois started asking around at St. Martin’s-in-the-Field, thinking some of the elderly members of her congregation might be able to point her in the direction of home healthcare workers. Old Mr. Griffin gave her his nurse’s number, but Lois threw it in the kitchen’s trashcan as soon as Mr. Griffin had gotten his coffee and walked away. His “nurse,” a young blonde woman with an overinflated head to match her chest, was the subject of much gossip in the church’s fellowship hall. No one had come right out and questioned the woman’s qualifications, but there was always an unspoken speculation regarding exactly what her profession was.
Having turned up no other prospects at church, Lois pays her father’s old apartment complex a visit, hoping to chat with one of his old poker buddies. Chester Vail is alone in the community room when she walks in. He has his back to her and appears to be talking to an empty corner of the room as she approaches.
“Mr. Vail, how are you? Do you remember—” Lois stops short as Chester turns toward her voice. The right side of his face seems frozen in the process of melting from his skull, his right eye unable to look anywhere but skyward, the right corner of his mouth leaking.
“Loooith,” he says, the left corner of his mouth lifting slightly. Mr. Vail had apparently suffered a stroke sometime in the last few years. Lois thinks what a formidable enemy time itself is, even for a former Navy Seal such as her father’s old friend, Mighty Chester.
She’s right. Time is a hard bastard, it screws us all.
Mr. Vail draws closer to Lois, dragging his right foot, and grabs her in a surprisingly tight left-handed bear hug. Despite her shock and sadness at his time-ravaged appearance, she laughs.
“Mr. Vail, look at you,” she says when she can’t think of anything else. She does her best to smile as she looks him up and down, but she feels a lump in her throat. His golden cardigan sweater is buttoned unevenly, the collar of his white polo underneath sticks straight up on the right, in stark contrast to his pulled taffy facial features. His right arm hangs limply at his side, never again to hold a rifle. Tears cloud Lois’s vision. “How are
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