Mrs. Ausberger patted the man’s tweed jacket, visibly calmed by his presence. “Oh, you smell just like my husband. Just like my husband.”
The man grinned sheepishly at Clare. “You two caught me smoking a pipe in my office. I know I’m not supposed to, but I hate going outside to puff away on these cold days. Takes all the pleasure out of it, reminds me that it’s really just a filthy addiction.” He reached out with his right hand. “I’m Paul Foubert. Director of Nursing.”
“Clare Fergusson. I’m the new priest at St. Alban’s.”
“Yep, the collar kind of gives you away. Thanks for rescuing Mrs. Ausberger. She’s been known to wander pretty far afield. Hey, Staci, great.”
A cute young woman barely out of her teens clattered down the corridor. “Sorry, Paul. I was fixing Mrs. Meerkill’s hair in the bathroom and didn’t realize she had slipped out.” She took Mrs. Augsberger’s hand. “C’mon, Mrs. A. How ’bout we get you washed up and I’ll make your hair pretty.”
“My husband likes my hair down.”
“You’re not going to be seeing your husband today, Mrs. A. But your grandson Nicholas will be visiting with his family. Won’t that be nice?” The girl’s cheerful voice faded as the pair turned the corner.
Clare looked up at Paul Foubert. “Her husband?”
“Dead ten years.” They both looked down the empty corridor. Foubert idly slapped his hands against his coat pockets. “Damn. Left my lighter in the office. Why don’t you come in for a minute or two?”
The director of nursing’s office was appropriately den-like in brick and wood. Tall shelves crammed with books and memorabilia lined one wall, facing a collection of obviously amateur artwork, undoubtedly done by residents of the Infirmary. Foubert gestured to one of the comfortable chairs facing his generously cluttered desk before settling himself into a well-sprung leather armchair.
“So, how long have you been at St. Alban’s?”
Clare propped her leg on the opposite knee. “A little over a month. It’s been . . . hectic. I’m still trying to get to the point where I don’t have to have a directory to remember my parishioners’ names and a map spread over my legs when I go out for a drive.”
Foubert picked up a pipe from a lumpy, half-glazed ashtray. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
He tamped in fresh tobacco. “What do you think of our Infirmary?”
“It seems like a good facility. The staff members I’ve met have all been pleasant and helpful. Caring. I imagine the small size helps. I did some work at a nursing home in Virginia while I was at seminary. It was huge. Well-run, but impersonal.”
“Mmmm. I’ve been fortunate to be able to get good people, both staff and volunteers. You’re right, being small does help. Makes it more like family. Before we moved here, I was at a large facility in New York City, and Lord, sometimes it felt like a body warehouse.”
“You’re not from here?”
He lit the pipe. The rich tobacco tang filled the room. “I am, originally. My dad worked in the mill. I escaped to the big city like a lot of kids and didn’t return until I was a burnout case, with nowhere else to go. I’ve been here eight years now.”
Clare glanced at the multiple diplomas hanging on the wall opposite the windows. “Some people would say running a nursing home is a burnout job.”
“Oh, no. Caring for men struck down in the prime of their lives, watching a dozen of your best friends die, that’s burnout.” He waved his pipe toward the rest of the Infirmary. “This is much more peaceful. It’s—you’ll pardon the slightly facist sound of this—the natural order. It’s a privilege to help our oldest through the ends of their lives. I try to impress that on everyone who works here, because I’ve found folks who don’t feel that way tend to get depressed and impatient with our residents.”
Clare nodded. “I’ll consider myself impressed upon.” The diploma wall also held a photo collage that stretched a good three feet square. She could pick out shots of parties and Christmas celebrations, elderly residents surrounded by three and four generations of family, doctors in white lab coats and nurses in cheerful-print smocks. A very large Easter Bunny in one picture turned out to be Foubert himself. She laughed.
“My Hall of Fame. Or Shame, as the case may be.”
“We have a similar one hanging outside our parish hall. But your pictures are definitely more fun than ours.” She opened her mouth soundlessly, struck by a sudden thought. “Are there pictures of all your volunteers here?”
“There sure are. We couldn’t run this place without them. I can’t afford to hire LPNs to do what they’re willing to do for free.”
“You must have a photo of Katie McWhorter, then.”
Foubert’s pleasant expression tightened under his bushy eyebrows. “I read about her in the paper.” He looked down at the pipe in his hand. The tobacco smouldered fragrantly. “She was such a wonderful kid. A little too much on the serious side for her age, but a damn hard worker. And smart.” He shook his head. “What a waste.” He looked up. “You leave the city to get away from that sort of thing, but it’s everywhere nowadays, isn’t it? There isn’t any safe spot anymore.” He rose from behind his desk and hunkered down in front of the collage. “Here she is. This was taken last year, at the Christmas party. She was prettier than she photographed. It was her expression, I think.”
Clare got out of her chair for a better view.
“The residents loved her. She never got antsy around them, the way some of our teenage volunteers do. She liked being here.”
“Who’s the boy with his arm around her? He looks sort of . . . have I seen him here during one of my visits?”
