inside the doorway.
Seeing the latest arrival standing at the window, Miss Cox called out to him. “Having fun, Mr. Bloom? Why don’t you come over here for a moment. I’d like to introduce you to one of your roommates.”
Bloom nodded and crossed toward her, wondering as he did so just how much fun Miss Cox imagined he might enjoy just by looking out the window. Perhaps she mistook him for a voyeur. And he hardly regarded the other male residents as roommates; the term would be more appropriate if applied to the youngsters in a boarding school. Unless, of course, Miss Cox was recycling it to do service in his second childhood.
Abruptly he put his thoughts aside to acknowledge her introduction.
“Mr. Conroy, this is Mr. Bloom, our new resident.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Conroy said. His attempt at a smile was not too successful, nor was his effort to shake hands, for as he raised his arm he realized that he was still clutching his suitcase by the handle.
“Here, let me take that.” Miss Cox snatched the suitcase from his grasp. “I’ll put it away for you. Why don’t you just stay here now and get acquainted with our new arrival?”
She nodded at Bloom. “Mr. Conroy’s first name is Leo,” she told him, then paused, frowning slightly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to recall yours.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Bloom smiled at her. “I haven’t given you my first name.”
“But I must have—”
Miss Cox broke off as the ring of a phone echoed from the hall. With a frown she hurried out, carrying Mr. Conroy’s suitcase with her.
Bloom found himself surrounded by smiling faces.
“Good on you,” Mr. Weinstein said. “That’s telling her!”
The others nodded approvingly; only Mr. Conroy seemed upset and his scowl of irritation was directed at the picture window facing the street beyond. He moved toward it, peering out into the dusk.
“Darn kids,” he muttered. “They’ve been told not to play around here. Old people need their rest.”
Mrs. Dempsey spoke up. “But we can’t even hear them, Mr. Conroy! Let the youngsters have their fun. I only wish I could go out there and play with them myself.”
Bloom nodded. “Why don’t you, Mrs. Dempsey?” he said softly.
She started to laugh, then broke off as Leo Conroy answered for her. “Because she’s old, Mr. Bloom.”
Bloom shook his head. “I don’t think we’re ever too old to play. When you rest, you rust.”
A fluffy white pillow suddenly uncoiled on the arm of the chair where Mrs. Dempsey had been sitting. Bloom blinked, then recognized her cat.
Mrs. Dempsey went to pick it up. As she cradled it in her arms, the cat began to purr, and so did Mrs. Dempsey. “What’s the matter, Mickey? Don’t you like television?”
“What’s to like?” Mr. Weinstein cast a sour glance at the screen, as a grinning, hyperactive game-show host fired an inane question at an equally inane contestant. “Why don’t we turn it off? All this racket makes it so a fella can’t think. I’d like a chance to get acquainted with Mr. Bloom here.”
“Good idea.” Mrs. Weinstein nodded approvingly at her spouse. “It’s been a long time since I had a chance to schmooz with anybody new.”
“Excellent!” said Mr. Mute. “The trouble with all these game-shows is that nobody loses except the viewers.”
He moved to the set and switched it off.
As the tube went blank, the others took their seats again. Bloom followed Mr. Conroy to the far end of the semicircle of chairs and sat down between him and Mrs. Dempsey.
Mr. Conroy turned to him. “Is this your first time in an old-age home, Bloom?”
Bloom shook his head, conscious that everyone was waiting for an answer. “No. Actually, Mr. Conroy, I’ve been in six or eight of them.”
“Six or eight homes?” Mr. Conroy raised his bushy eyebrows. “That’s quite a record, Bloom. What’s your problem—can’t make any friends?”
Mrs. Dempsey produced a sniff of indignation.
Seeing the latest arrival standing at the window, Miss Cox called out to him. “Having fun, Mr. Bloom? Why don’t you come over here for a moment. I’d like to introduce you to one of your roommates.”
Bloom nodded and crossed toward her, wondering as he did so just how much fun Miss Cox imagined he might enjoy just by looking out the window. Perhaps she mistook him for a voyeur. And he hardly regarded the other male residents as roommates; the term would be more appropriate if applied to the youngsters in a boarding school. Unless, of course, Miss Cox was recycling it to do service in his second childhood.
Abruptly he put his thoughts aside to acknowledge her introduction.
“Mr. Conroy, this is Mr. Bloom, our new resident.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Conroy said. His attempt at a smile was not too successful, nor was his effort to shake hands, for as he raised his arm he realized that he was still clutching his suitcase by the handle.
“Here, let me take that.” Miss Cox snatched the suitcase from his grasp. “I’ll put it away for you. Why don’t you just stay here now and get acquainted with our new arrival?”
She nodded at Bloom. “Mr. Conroy’s first name is Leo,” she told him, then paused, frowning slightly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to recall yours.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Bloom smiled at her. “I haven’t given you my first name.”
“But I must have—”
Miss Cox broke off as the ring of a phone echoed from the hall. With a frown she hurried out, carrying Mr. Conroy’s suitcase with her.
Bloom found himself surrounded by smiling faces.
“Good on you,” Mr. Weinstein said. “That’s telling her!”
The others nodded approvingly; only Mr. Conroy seemed upset and his scowl of irritation was directed at the picture window facing the street beyond. He moved toward it, peering out into the dusk.
“Darn kids,” he muttered. “They’ve been told not to play around here. Old people need their rest.”
Mrs. Dempsey spoke up. “But we can’t even hear them, Mr. Conroy! Let the youngsters have their fun. I only wish I could go out there and play with them myself.”
Bloom nodded. “Why don’t you, Mrs. Dempsey?” he said softly.
She started to laugh, then broke off as Leo Conroy answered for her. “Because she’s old, Mr. Bloom.”
Bloom shook his head. “I don’t think we’re ever too old to play. When you rest, you rust.”
A fluffy white pillow suddenly uncoiled on the arm of the chair where Mrs. Dempsey had been sitting. Bloom blinked, then recognized her cat.
Mrs. Dempsey went to pick it up. As she cradled it in her arms, the cat began to purr, and so did Mrs. Dempsey. “What’s the matter, Mickey? Don’t you like television?”
“What’s to like?” Mr. Weinstein cast a sour glance at the screen, as a grinning, hyperactive game-show host fired an inane question at an equally inane contestant. “Why don’t we turn it off? All this racket makes it so a fella can’t think. I’d like a chance to get acquainted with Mr. Bloom here.”
“Good idea.” Mrs. Weinstein nodded approvingly at her spouse. “It’s been a long time since I had a chance to schmooz with anybody new.”
“Excellent!” said Mr. Mute. “The trouble with all these game-shows is that nobody loses except the viewers.”
He moved to the set and switched it off.
As the tube went blank, the others took their seats again. Bloom followed Mr. Conroy to the far end of the semicircle of chairs and sat down between him and Mrs. Dempsey.
Mr. Conroy turned to him. “Is this your first time in an old-age home, Bloom?”
Bloom shook his head, conscious that everyone was waiting for an answer. “No. Actually, Mr. Conroy, I’ve been in six or eight of them.”
“Six or eight homes?” Mr. Conroy raised his bushy eyebrows. “That’s quite a record, Bloom. What’s your problem—can’t make any friends?”
Mrs. Dempsey produced a sniff of indignation.
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