GODSEND
Copyright © 2017 Barry Knister
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Open Window
an imprint of BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number:
2016954888
Print edition ISBN number:
ISBN: 978-1-946006-45-5
Visit the publisher at:
Also available in trade softcover
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To everyone at BHC Press
The only things that are important
in life are the things you remember.
~ Jean Renoir ~
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2003
Jimmy, they’re going to love you. You’re going to be their favorite grandson, the beautiful young man who helps them. I see it, I really do. If you go to the other coast, you’ll be a sensation. The hair, the teeth, perfect English better even than Harvard—they won’t know what hit ’em!
Driving south on Florida’s 41, James Rivera smiled at the memory. Everything the old man said that day had turned out to be true. He still saw Arnold Kleinman in his office, seated behind his huge desk—
You’re my protégé, my apprentice. You leave Boca Raton with all this knowledge you soak up like a sponge, and go to Naples—
The dashboard clock read 8:20, but already intense morning sun was making him squint. He got his sunglasses from the console. The crowded, busy day ahead was definitely not the best day to be helping Hilda Frieslander. He had the Haileys’ big Christmas tree to take down, the Grizettis’ loose pavers to fix, plus a whole backlog of client problems in North Naples—Yes, Jim, but in business, when you make promises, you keep them. And remember, old people are different, go easy. It always pays off in good word-of-mouth.
◆◆◆◆◆
The deadbolt clicked. He waited for her to roll back in her wheelchair before easing open the door.
“Did you get caught in traffic?” she asked.
“Not for long.”
Mrs. Frieslander turned herself as Rivera stepped in. He closed the door, shifted her bag of groceries, and used his free hand to push her down the hall. It was narrow, with bookcases on both sides. Arranged on top were small, beautiful bronze horses captured in full gallop. When he came here, it was to read to her and cook. Today, she had asked him to buy a small turkey and a bottle of Banfi Brunello ’01.
They passed the open door to the study she could no longer use. Mrs. Frieslander had been the first person to answer his ad, and as he rolled her past the unused guest bedroom, Rivera remembered Mrs. F smiling and looking up from his business card. I like the name of your company. All Hands on Deck is a rhetorical device. Seeing he didn’t understand, she had explained. All Hands is what’s called a synecdoche. The part of something that stands for the whole. The hands represent the people who help.
Her condo was on the eighteenth floor, and as they entered the front room, he saw the slider was open to her terrace. “Were you up to watch the sunrise?” he asked. “Do you want me to take—”
“You know me better than that,” Mrs. F said. “Sunrises are kitsch, just like sunsets. It’s open so I can smell the Gulf.”
Anything kitsch was crude and unrefined, in poor taste. Like Arnold Kleinman, Mrs. F had taught Rivera a great many words. She nodded, and he pushed her around the corner, into the kitchen.
“Have you got it?”
As he set her groceries on the counter, she turned the wheelchair to face him. Rivera reached in the shopping bag and brought out a cellophane package. He opened the drawer with her kitchenware, searched, and found a paring knife. He closed the drawer and began slicing open the cellophane.
“Careful,” she said.
“Yes.”
When done, he stepped to her, placed the package on her knees, and stepped back. After a moment, Mrs. Frieslander peeled away the wrapping and unfolded a large plastic bag used for roasting turkeys. Shaking it loose, she brought the bag to her mouth and blew it open.
“Perfect,” she said as she held it out. “Big and clear. I got the idea from an old Hemlock Society newsletter. But the photo showed a frosted bag. It put me off.”
Still holding it, with difficulty the old woman reached with her free hand into her suit pocket. She tugged out a thick green rubber band and held it up. “From Barnes and Noble,” she said. “The band from my magazine order.”
“Good. Let me get started—”
“No, James. I’m going to throw you a curve.”
That was from baseball, being thrown a curve, a surprise. She smoothed out the plastic bag, folded it and tucked it with the rubber band back into her suit pocket. Unlike many of Rivera’s elderly clients, Hilda Frieslander was still careful about her appearance. He had never seen this outfit. It was navy with white trim. And because of her diabetes she always wore compression stockings, but today she had on black nylons. When he looked up, Mrs. F raised both hands and held back her white hair. She was wearing diamond earrings. She lowered her hands and folded them on her knees.
“You look very pretty,” he said.
“Thank you. Please open the wine.”
“You don’t want—”
“The groceries are just meant to keep your visit in sync with our usual routine.” She raised her hands and fitted the fingers together. “In s-y-n-c,” she said. “Synchronized. Coordinated.”
“I understand.” Rivera again looked in the drawer and found the corkscrew. He set it on the counter, got the bottle and began working off the tinfoil.
“Did you make sure to speak to the lobby guard?”
“Dewey? Yes, I did. I told him you wanted to roast a turkey. I asked
