Turn of Mind

They scatter like cockroaches.

Love, love is everywhere. People are pairing off, two by two, sometimes three. Couplings that last perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. Junior high for the geriatric set.

The woman with no neck is utterly promiscuous. She will be intimate with anyone. Here that means holding hands. Sitting in the lounge side by side. Perhaps a hand on a thigh.Very few words spoken.

Husbands and wives show up, are looked at blankly. Some of them cry, all are relieved. A burden lifted. But these lovers. To be eternally seeking, to be besotted, to retreat to and be stuck at the most ignoble stage of life. God preserve me from ever going through that again.

I was that foolish just twice. There was James. And then there was the other. It ended badly, of course. How could it not? His young, aggrieved face. His sense of entitlement.

He would be close to fifty now—how odd to think that. A decade older than I was then. I never cared to see how he fared after leaving. I assume he did well, things are easy for the beautiful ones.

But it wasn’t his beauty that attracted me. It was his feeling for the knife. I thrilled at that. His grip on the handle as if grasping the hand of a beloved. Still, to have that passion, that desire, but not the talent. I pitied him. And then pity turned into something else. I never used the word love. It couldn’t compare to what I felt for James. But it wasn’t like anything else either. And that counts for something.

When thinking over one’s life, it’s the extreme moments that stand out. The peaks and the valleys. He was one of the highest peaks. In some ways looming larger than James. If James was a central mountain in the landscape of my life, then this other was a pinnacle of a different sort. Higher, sharper. You couldn’t build upon its fragile precipices. But the view was spectacular.

There is colored tape on the rich carpet—somewhat spoiling the effect of luxury they work so hard to maintain here, but useful. This is a linear world. You go straight. You make right turns or left turns.

Following the blue line takes me to my bathroom. Red leads to the dining room. Yellow to the lounge. Brown is for the circumference walk, which takes you round and round the perimeter of the great room. Round and round. Round and round.

Past the bedrooms, past the dining room, the TV room, the activity room, past the double doors to the outside world with exit painted seductively in red letters. And on you go, in perpetual motion.

Something nags. Something that resides in a sterile, brightly lit place where there is no room for shadows. The place for blood and bone. Yet shadows exist. And secrets.

An extraordinarily clean place, this. They are constantly scrubbing, vacuuming, touching up the paint. Dusting. Fixing. It is pristine. And luxurious. A five-star hotel with guardrails. The Ritz for the mentally infirm. Plump cushy armchairs in the great room. An enormous flat-screen television in the TV lounge. Fresh flowers everywhere. The scent of money.

They keep us clean, too. Frequent showers with strong antiseptic soap. Harsh washcloths wielded expertly by rough hands. The indignity of a vigorous scrubbing of the belly, the buttocks.

Why bother exfoliating? Let the dead cells accumulate, let them encase me until, mummified, I am preserved as I am. No more deterioration. To stop this descent. What I wouldn’t pay. What I wouldn’t give.

I am sitting with a well-groomed woman with feathered gray hair. We’re in the dining room, at the long communal table. It has been freshly set for a dozen or so diners, but we are the only ones eating.

I have some sort of long pale strings of matter swimming in a thick red liquid. She has a piece of whitish meat. We both have a mound of white mush with a brown liquid poured on it. Through a sort of haze I recognize a fellow professional. Someone I could respect.

What is that? I point to something she has to the right of her food, something I don’t have.

That’s a knife.

I want one.

No, you don’t need one. See, your food is soft, easy to break into bite-size morsels. You don’t need to cut it.

But I like that one. Most of all.

That makes sense.

How long have you been here? I ask.

About six years.

What did you do?

What do you mean?

To get sent here. What did you do? Everyone here has committed a crime. Some worse than others.

No, I work here. My name is Laura. I’m the resident manager. She smiles. She is tall and broad-shouldered. Strong and sturdy. And what crime did you commit? she asks.

I don’t like to say.

That’s all right. You don’t need to tell me. It’s not important.