Swimsuit Body (3 page)

She growls in response and tosses her wadded napkin at me.

CHAPTER THREE

After I leave Ivy's, I drive across town to meet with Shondra Perkins, director of the Trousdale Senior Center, with whom I have a 3:30 appointment. Shondra didn't say why she wants to see me, but I assume it has to do with my brother, Arthur, who volunteers at the center. What did he do this time? Argue out loud with the voices in his head? Share one of his crackpot conspiracy theories? Inform one of the old people at the center, where he teaches computer skills, that his or her pacemaker was picking up alien transmissions from outer space?

Arthur has been doing much better since his most recent stay at the puff—insider-speak for psychiatric facility—and although I would like to believe he's turned a corner, that his current meds are the magic cocktail, or that his mental illness has lessened with age as can sometimes happen, I know better. Arthur is schizoaffective. A cross between schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, it has him subject to both delusions and manic phases, which come and go, usually without warning. He can be fine one day and obsessing over something that exists only in his mind the next: listening devices planted in his walls by the CIA or top-secret government missions for which he's been recruited to create a software program. But like I said, he's been on an even keel lately, so maybe I'm worrying needlessly. Maybe there's a benign reason Shondra wants to see me. I'll know soon enough.

The Trousdale Senior Center is located to the south of town, in an area far removed from the quaint charms of the historic district and dominated by office buildings and medical complexes. I take the old coast highway, which is slower than the freeway but more scenic. The road curves past cliffs, from which cypress trees lean leeward like grizzled mariners braced against storm winds, and ocean vistas that are indeed worthy of a film location. Of the properties that front the ocean, no two are alike, funky older cottages stand beside beautifully restored Victorians and contemporary homes like the ones you see in
Architectural Digest
. I used to love showing those properties when I was a broker, not only because of the wow factor, but because there was something for everyone—a reflection of the community itself. Driving past Paradise Point, I see the seal-like figures of surfers in wetsuits dotting the waves. A man carrying a ratty backpack ambles alongside the road. At the beach shuttle stop, several teenage girls in cutoffs and bikini tops loiter by the snack bar, purposely ignoring the boys who appear to be checking them out.

I round the bend at Dolan State Park, and I'm treated to views of the ocean to the west and the wetlands to the east. Sailboats cut graceful swaths out at sea, and ducks paddle amid the tall reeds of the saltwater marsh. The weather is unseasonably warm for the beginning of June. I'm tempted to join the beachgoers splashing in the surf. I keep a gym bag in the back of the Explorer, packed with a towel and swimsuit, for just such impulses. But duty calls. Like it or not, I am my brother's keeper.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of a two-story clapboard structure, white with green trim, that has a vaguely Ethan Allenish feel, like a midprice chain hotel masquerading as a bed-and-breakfast. Conveniently situated between a medical complex and a Rite Aid, the senior center is named after the late Leon Trousdale, Bradley's grandfather and my mother's former employer. Leon donated the money to have it built. It galls me whenever I see
the sign with his name, because we all know now he wasn't the man he pretended to be. But I also know good can come of evil, and this place has been good for Arthur since he started volunteering here. He's more like the confident, quick-witted brother I remember from when we were growing up.

Inside, the door to Shondra's office stands open. She rises from behind her desk to greet me as I enter. “Tish, it's good to see you. Thanks for making the time. I know it's the middle of your workday.”

Shondra is in her fifties and on the heavy side, but she carries her weight well. She always dresses as though she is the keynote speaker at a convention. Today she's wearing a gold-and-black houndstooth blazer paired with a black pencil skirt, an outfit that complements her ebony skin. I feel frumpy next to her in my jeans and sweatshirt. “Everything all right?” I ask as we shake hands.

“See for yourself.” She motions toward the interior window opposite her desk that looks out on the large, airy common room. My gaze travels past a pair of elderly men playing chess and three ladies practicing some sort of dance routine to where my brother sits at the computer station, as erect as Captain Kirk at the helm of
Starship Enterprise
, instructing his current students, eight women and one man. I watch them lean in as he demonstrates something on his computer. I'd expected to find him behaving strangely or sitting alone staring into space, and it comes as a profound relief to see him holding his own, commanding the respect of people twice his age.

“My brother, the rock star,” I remark, smiling.

The director chuckles. “He's especially popular with the ladies. Have you met Mrs. Sedgwick?” She points out a petite, henna-haired woman who's pressed in more closely than the others. From this distance, she doesn't look like a senior citizen. In contrast to the other ladies, who are dressed in leisurewear and sweats, she wears four-inch black patent-leather heels and a chevron-pattern wrap dress that shows off her figure. I bet she still turns heads even at her age.
My brother's for one
, I think when they exchange a private smile, after she's whispered something in his ear.

“Arthur's made a real contribution around here,” Shondra goes on. “We're lucky to have him.”

I whip my head around to stare at her. “You mean you … you don't want him to leave?”

Shondra looks surprised before she seems to realize where I'm coming from. She hastens to set me straight. “Leave? God, no. I wish I had four more like him. Some of those folks don't get out much.” She gestures toward the cluster of mostly gray heads bent toward Arthur. “Now they can Skype with loved ones and surf the Web, and they don't feel as isolated. All because of Arthur.”

I blink back tears. “Wow. I'm … I'm glad it's going so well.”

“I confess I had my doubts at first, given his … challenges. But it's worked out better than I had hoped. And I know from talking to Arthur, he feels the same way.”

It occurs to me that one reason my brother has flourished here is because he's not always the craziest person in the room. Some of regulars at the center are in the early stages of dementia; others have cognitive impairment. I watch him come to the aid of a tiny, white-haired woman who's staring at her screen in confusion, cupping the mouse as gingerly as if it were an explosive device. He speaks calmly to her and puts his hand over hers to guide the mouse until she gets the hang of it.

“He's certainly in his element,” I agree.

“I'd like to offer him a paid position. That's why I asked you here, Tish. I thought I should discuss it with you first.”

“You're offering him a
job
?” It's all I can do not to shriek with joy.

She nods and smiles. “If you don't think it'd be too much for him. He'd be working five afternoons a week, instead of three, to accommodate all the people who've signed up for his classes.”

“I'll have to run it by his psychiatrist, but I don't imagine he'll have a problem with it.” In fact, it was Dr. Sandefur who'd suggested Arthur might benefit from volunteer work. “Personally, I'm all for it.”

“I'm afraid we couldn't offer much in the way of salary.”

“Not a problem.” I explain about Arthur's SSDI benefits, which restrict how much he can earn in supplementary income. We chat a few minutes more before I take my leave. I promise to get back to her as soon as I've gotten the green light from Arthur's psychiatrist.

On my way out, I stop to say hello to Arthur. He peels away from a heavyset, platinum-haired woman in a purple pantsuit who's complaining in a loud voice that she can't find the cursor and hurries to meet me as I walk toward him. “Tish, what are you doing here?” he asks, frowning.

I'm struck by how handsome he looks. He wears a blue-striped Oxford shirt and pressed khakis instead of the baggy sweats he slops around in at home. His shaggy brown hair is styled with product except where it curls over his ears. You'd never guess this was the same Arthur who once assaulted a Greenpeace volunteer whom he'd mistaken for a CIA operative. “I was in the neighborhood,” I lie.

He eyes me suspiciously behind his black-framed Clark Kent glasses. “I'm fine. Everything under control.” He speaks in a low voice as if to a social worker doing an assessment.

“So I see. I'm not here to check up on you,” I assure him. “And I'm not staying. I have to get back to work.”

“Okay. … Good-bye, then.” He catches himself and says in a nicer voice, “Can we talk later?”

“I'll stop by after work to pick up your laundry.” Arthur doesn't own a car and the nearest Laundromat is some distance, so I do his laundry whenever the coin-operated machines at his apartment complex are on the fritz. “We can grab a bite to eat, if you'd like. I thought we'd try that new pizza place.”

“Could we make it another night?” He's suddenly having trouble making eye contact. “I, um, have this … thing.”

I can barely contain my surprise. Arthur rarely goes out in the evenings unless it's with me, or Ivy if it's the three of us. He usually stays in playing video games or writing computer programs while consuming giant bowls of Honey Bunches of Oats. His only friend is a fellow computer geek named Ray Zimmer, whom he met in an online forum. But if he had plans with Ray, wouldn't he have said so?

Before I can press for details, I'm distracted by the sight of a petite figure hurrying toward us, the henna-haired woman who was glued to Arthur's side a minute ago. “You must be Arthur's sister,” she greets me, extending her hand. “I've heard so much about you, I feel as if I know you. I'm Gladys Sedgwick,” she adds belatedly when it becomes clear I'm not equally familiar with her.

“Tish,” I introduce myself, wondering why Arthur hadn't mentioned her to me. I know only what I learned from Shondra, that she's a wealthy widow whose late husband, Lloyd Sedgwick of Sedgwick Savings and Loan, left an endowment to the center in his will. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sedgwick.” The emerald on her ring finger catches my eye. It's the size of a cocktail onion.

“Gladys, please. I'm ancient enough as it is,” she says in the tone of a woman who's used to being told she doesn't look her age. Her blue eyes sparkle in a fine-boned face with few wrinkles, and her porcelain complexion suggests she was a true redhead before she started dyeing her hair the color of a red-velvet cake. “Arthur talks about you all the time. I was hoping we'd have a chance to meet.”

I smile. “Did he have anything nice to say?”

“He said you used to stick up for him at school.”

“True. I gave this one kid who was bullying him a black eye.”

“I hope he learned his lesson,” she replies staunchly.

“Yeah, be nice to kids with big sisters who have mean right hooks.”

Gladys chuckles, and Arthur says pointedly to me, “I thought you had to get back to work.”

“You act like you're in a hurry to get rid of me. Worried I'll embarrass you in front of your new friend?” I tease. His face flushes crimson, and I realize, to my dismay, I've done just that—embarrassed him.

“We don't want to keep you. Art has told me how busy you are,” Gladys says, coming to his rescue. “You must have your hands full looking after all those homes.”
Art?
No one ever calls my brother Art; he hates that derivative. And why is she acting like they're more than teacher and student?

Arthur directs a look of pained appeal at me.

“Later, dude.” I kiss him good-bye, putting him out of his misery, and he slips away to head back to his post.

“We'd be utterly lost without him,” Gladys says, walking with me to the door. “Some of us had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the digital era. It helps to have a teacher who explains things clearly, and who never loses patience.”

“He's a good guy,” I agree with understated pride.

“He reminds me of my late husband. Such a dear man. Fifty years, and never a harsh word.”

“Sounds like you had a good marriage.”

“We did. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him.” She sighs wistfully.

“Must get lonely.”

“Yes, but it helps to stay active. That's what I told my granddaughter, Lexie, when she lost her husband two years ago. I urged her to hang on to their cattle ranch in Montana when she was thinking of selling it. Life doesn't end when you bury your husband, I told her. You're only thirty-five. She took my advice, though I'm sure there are days she wishes she hadn't. Cattle ranching isn't for wimps!”

“You don't look old enough to have a grandchild who owns a ranch,” I remark.

She beams at the compliment, twinkling up at me like a shiny ornament from a low branch of a Christmas tree. “You're only as old as you feel. In my mind, I can still turn somersaults.”

I wonder if she sees herself as someone in whom Arthur could be romantically interested.
Is
he? It occurs to me he must get lonely from time to time. He hasn't had a girlfriend since Amanda, his college sweetheart who broke up with him when he first started acting crazy. Was it so hard to believe he could be attracted to the well-preserved and young-at-heart Gladys?

“We go power walking in the mornings,” she says as we're saying our good-byes at the door. “You should join us some weekend. Once around the park, and breakfast afterward at the Bluejay Café.” I'm about to beg off, imagining it to be some senior-group activity, when she adds, “Arthur and I would enjoy the company, and you and I could get to know each other better.”