Chapter Thirteen
Cassie had begun to hope Mrs. Macuja might work out after all.
She was a bit opinionated—only certain cleaning products would do and the very fact of her existence annoyed Cassie’s father—but she was definitely a big help.
Her dad grumped about someone else washing his clothes and deciding what he was going to eat, but he’d seemed resigned.
But now, at nine-thirty on Monday morning, when she had a call at ten, something had gone awry.
“Mrs. Macuja wants to talk to you,” Andrew called upstairs.
“I have a meeting in a few,” Cassie said. “Can I talk to her later?”
“She wants to talk to you now.”
She clicked out of the memo she’d been reviewing. She should have spent more time preparing over the weekend, but between dinner with Glenn and the trip to the city and—
“Mom!”
“All right, I’m coming!”
Mrs. Macuja was halfway up the stairs, her face an alarming shade of red. “I try my best. I do everything you ask but your father no good.”
“What do you mean, he’s no good?” Yes, her father was difficult, but he’d been difficult all along. “Is it the laundry, is he giving you a hard time?”
“Not the laundry. He pinch me!”
“He pinched you? Like on your skin? Are you sure?”
“What you mean, am I sure?” Mrs. Macuja lifted her skirt to show a red mark on the soft skin of her inner thigh.
Cassie felt slightly sick. “He did that? He actually touched you there?”
“He don’t touch. He pinch!”
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Did he, I mean, what did he—” She glanced downstairs to see Andrew gaping up at them.
She lowered her voice. “—He put his hand up there?” Dementia could lower inhibitions.
She’d heard of elderly patients who suddenly began groping their caregivers or came out with lascivious comments that were completely out of character.
Sometimes they even ended up getting kicked out of their nursing homes.
But her father? The man so full of decorum he used to wear pressed slacks even on the weekends.
Mrs. Macuja glared at her. “How you think he do it?”
Cassie squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second. “I am so sorry. Let’s go talk to him right now.” She glanced at her watch. Nine-thirty-five. She needed at least twenty minutes to go over that memo. But her father had pinched a woman. That couldn’t wait.
In the family room, her dad was placidly watching TV with his headphones on.
“Dad,” Cassie said. “Dad!” She muted the TV.
He tugged off the headphones. “What are you doing?”
“Did you pinch Mrs. Macuja?”
He stared at them blankly but not before the briefest look of cunning passed over his face. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I clean up the puzzle on coffee table.” Mrs. Macuja gave Cassie an accusing look. “You don’t tell me to leave it.”
“Oh.” She groaned. “That damn puzzle.”
Mrs. Macuja drew herself up. “He old but that not right.”
“No, no of course it’s not…I’m so sorry.
It won’t happen again. I promise.” Her father had pinched Mrs. Macuja.
And not just anywhere, he’d put his hand up her skirt like a sleazy old pervert.
“He’s not usually like this. The puzzle got him upset.
I mean, that’s no excuse, but he’s never done this before.
” She looked at her dad, who was still absorbed in the TV even without the sound.
“Dad,” she said severely, “you need to apologize.”
Her father looked at them benignly.
Mrs. Macuja crossed her arms. “I already ask him.”
“You did? What did he say?” Cassie felt like she’d swallowed a prune, pit and all.
“He say he don’t do it.”
“Dad.” Cassie took a fortifying breath. “This is not okay. If you’re upset you need to say something.
You can’t go around pinching people.” The puzzle pieces that had been scattered on the coffee table were all now neatly stowed in the box, which was sitting on a stack of magazines.
“How was Mrs. Macuja supposed to know you were working on it?”
Her dad looked mildly at Mrs. Macuja, who glowered at him and then Andrew, who’d crept to the doorway, looking horrified.
Her dad gazed at the rest of them serenely. “I didn’t pinch her.”
“He lying!” Mrs. Macuja rounded on Cassie. “You don’t believe me?”
Cassie looked between her father and Mrs. Macuja, who was practically shaking she was so mad. “I believe you,” she said quietly. Her dad—meticulous lawyer, devoted husband, opinionated but never malicious—had pinched a woman in a very private place because she aggravated him. And then denied it.
In his former life, he would have been aghast.
“I can’t work here,” Mrs. Macuja said.
Cassie dropped her voice. “He’s old, he’s got dementia. He doesn’t realize what he did.” She doubted this last part was true. She’d seen that sneaky look and so had Mrs. Macuja.
Mrs. Macuja narrowed her eyes. “He know what he do.”
Cassie’s shoulders slumped. Her father definitely knew.
Whether he believed it to be wrong was another story.
In his mixed-up mind, maybe a pinch was justified.
“Is there anything I can do to get you to reconsider?” she asked without much hope.
She didn’t blame Mrs. Macuja. In some ways it would be easier if her dad needed to be bathed or have his food cut up.
Depressing yes, but this in-between stage, where his inhibitions had skipped off along with his judgment—she had no idea what to do about this.
“I don’t change my mind.” Mrs. Macuja collected her purse and sweater from the kitchen. She cast a final glance at Cassie’s dad, who’d put his headphones back on and resumed watching his show. “I have to tell agency why I quit,” she said.
“Of course. I understand.” She paid Mrs. Macuja for the rest of the week and saw her out, her stomach puckered with anxiety. The agency might file a sexual assault complaint. Social Services could get involved. This could be an utter nightmare.
In the family room, her dad had switched from CNN to MSNBC. “Is that woman gone?” he said when Cassie entered the room. With the headphones on, his voice was overly loud.
Cassie sank onto the couch. Her meeting was in ten minutes. She’d done absolutely nothing to prepare. Sometimes it felt like this was her full-time job and being a lawyer was incidental. “Yes, she’s gone,” she said wearily.
Her dad nodded and went back to the news, which was airing a business segment about electric cars. Who knew how much of it he actually followed.
She thought of Chuck Weber, who’d called again and left a message.
She hadn’t called back, but his offer rolled around in her head.
A very big number that might even get through to her dad.
He said he didn’t want to sell, but what was the alternative?
After this pinching incident they might be unable to find another caregiver and eventually her dad would need help at night too.
He might stumble out of bed and forget where he was.
Fall down the stairs. It happened to old people all the time.
And the house needed work. Just the other day she’d noticed a woodpecker drilling near an upstairs window.
Wasn’t that a sign of rot? It was only a matter of time before something major, like the furnace, went. Who was going to handle that?
No, staying in the house was not a long-term solution. There was only one thing to do. And the time to do it was now when they had an offer on the table.
. . .
She arranged for Chuck Weber to come over at ten o’clock Wednesday morning.
After her dad had relaxed over breakfast and the paper but before he started dozing in front of the TV.
A short window of time when he was most lucid.
Andrew had convinced him to start over on the dinosaur puzzle and they’d been working on it together, but Wednesday morning Andrew would not be around.
He had his appointment with Dr. Milburn that day.
Weber arrived promptly at ten, which Cassie took as a good sign.
Punctual people tended to be direct and to the point.
That was what this conversation needed to be—pleasant and unemotional.
A simple business proposition. She took a breath as she opened the door.
Who was she kidding? Selling the house was the right thing to do—Shelly was on board too—but her stomach was still tied in knots.
As ambivalent as she always felt about coming home, seeing the house torn down would be wrenching.
Her mother still lived in every one of its rooms.
Weber was dressed like he’d been at the zoning board hearing in jeans and a blazer.
He offered a firm, friendly handshake. She dropped a look at his card.
Charles Weber, Jr. He’d probably grown up buying and selling property, putting up developments.
This was just one more deal to him and his family.
“Coffee?” she said. She wasn’t sure about the protocol for a visit like this, but she’d put on a fresh pot just in case. Coffee might make it feel like a neighborly chat instead of a sales pitch.
“No thanks, I’m good. Already had too much this morning.” She saw him look around, take in the worn floorboards, her dad’s muddy shoes under the hallway table. How shabby the house had become.
“Dad,” she said, leading Weber into the family room. Her dad had settled in front of the TV a little sooner than she’d anticipated. She’d wanted to have this conversation in the kitchen where he wouldn’t be distracted but asking him to move now would only irritate him.
“This is Chuck Weber from Weber Properties. He wants to talk to us. Can you turn off the TV?”
Her dad gave Weber a suspicious look and reluctantly clicked off the TV. “What’s this about?” he said.
Weber set a business card on the coffee table and took a seat on the couch across from her father. “How are you today, Mr. Linden?”
“I’m fine.” Her dad glanced at Cassie, who couldn’t quite meet his eyes. She glanced out the window, where the trees were bursting with the incandescent green of early spring.