Bran New Death(27)

The modern addition was small, but clean and bright, with bedrooms off a square, open area centered by a nurse’s station. There were two dining rooms, she told me, one for the mobile folk, and another for those who needed more room and more help. The second floor of the new section was much the same as the first; an elevator with wider-than-normal doorways and a deeper cabinet accommodated motorized wheelchairs, and could even be used for transporting patients who were bedridden. “Turner Construction, Rusty Turner’s company, did all the work on this seven years ago,” Gogi said.

“It turned out well!” I replied, impressed by the neat, simple layout.

She took me out a side door on the main floor and showed me the protected garden, cradled in the L shape between the modern addition and the old building. “Rusty did this a couple of years ago,” she said, pointing out the six-foot-high privacy fencing, safe even for those with dementia who might wander off, since there was no external access except a locked gate.

“So all of this is in the newly built area; what’s in the older section?” I asked.

“I’ll show you that now.”

I followed Gogi, who was talking as she went; upstairs in the old section were suites for those who could manage stairs and were more independent. We descended the wide, sweeping staircase, as she explained that on the main floor were the social rooms. She led me to what was probably once the dining room and parlor, linked by pocket doors, which were open. There were tables set up sporadically, and settees and shelves with books lined one wall. A few gentlemen and ladies were seated in some of the comfortable wing chairs near the fireplace and by the front window. Some were reading, others chatting, and one was just watching everyone else.

“We call this the library.”

A pudgy teenager with dark, frizzy hair pulled back in a tight ponytail carried in a tray laden with cups, sugar, milk, and spoons. She set it on the table in the corner. When she straightened, she noticed Gogi, and her sullen expression, mouth turned down in resentment, changed to one of uncertainty.

“Pardon me a moment,” Gogi said, then crossed the room and took her aside, speaking to her for a few minutes. The girl nodded, wiped away a tear, and nodded again. When they were done, the girl impulsively reached out and hugged Gogi. After that, her expression lighter, she went to each lady and gentleman in the room and offered tea or coffee.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

Gogi watched the girl for a long moment, then drew me aside. “I wouldn’t normally say anything; I try not to let people become prejudiced before they meet her, you know. She’s here on community service,” she murmured. She met my gaze, and answered the question in my eyes. “Graffiti. She was caught in the cemetery spray-painting awful slogans on gravestones.”

“Is this the right place for her?” I asked, a little shocked that they would put her with the elderly.

“Oh, I think so, with careful supervision, of course. In fact, I asked for her. I followed the case in the local paper, and when I learned that she had been abandoned by her mother and left in the care of her grandmother, who no longer could control her, I knew she was going to end up in a group home. I was afraid she’d never learn or understand why she was angry. She needs to figure that out if she’s going to get past it.”

I was silent for a long minute as I watched the girl caught by one old gentleman, who grabbed her arm and asked her something. She looked like she was ready to flee, but one look from Gogi kept her in place. She sat down, and before long the old man was talking to her intently, and she was listening. Truly listening; I could tell.

“That’s Hubert Dread. He has the most interesting stories. Not all of them are true, but they are interesting.”

“So, you think her graffiti problem was a result of . . .” I raised my eyebrows, a question in my tone.

“Fear. Anger. She was raging against living with an old woman who didn’t understand her, and yet at the same time she was afraid of losing her grandma.” Gogi sighed and shook her head. “That’s an oversimplification, and I don’t mean to play armchair psychiatrist, but it’s a beginning. She seems a little better already. It was a gamble; working here could have made her more angry, but it’s turning out the way I hoped.”

As Gogi led me to an alcove to sit, an old man wandered in, the one wearing the sunbonnet.

“He does live here!” I said. “Who is that fellow?”

“Well, actually, that is someone I’d like you to meet,” Gogi said. She went to him and took his arm, saying something as she led him over. “Merry, this is Doc English. Doc, this is Merry Wynter, Melvyn’s niece, the one who inherited the castle.”