Endless Chain

Tonight she parked in the employees’ section of the lot, and enjoyed every moment of locking up and pocketing her own keys. She reminded herself not to get used to this luxury, that the car was a loan that could be taken back at any time. If nothing else, the past three years had taught her to appreciate what she had, but not to hang on to it tightly.

Inside she punched the time clock and put her purse in her locker. On her way to the central nurses’ desk she greeted staff, admiring one aide’s new haircut and accepting a cup of coffee from another who was just leaving the break room. At the desk she greeted the nurse on duty and chatted a few minutes before tackling the day log. She caught up on her unit, scanning notes from all shifts since her last and initialing the notes to show she had read them.

On her own unit, she and Kathy, the aide she was replacing, did a crossover, making sure Elisa knew everything she needed to about what had gone on before, who to watch out for and special problems she might encounter. Kathy, middle-aged and exhausted, already had her keys out. She was looking forward to a glass of wine and the several hours of reality shows she had videotaped.

“Did anyone have visitors?” Elisa asked. Visitors were never an issue on her shift, but sometimes the previous shift experienced problems settling residents after family left for the night.

“Mrs. Lovett’s daughter came, but Mrs. L. was glad to see her go, and so was I. There were a couple of others, but no problems afterward.”

Elisa didn’t look up from the small spiral notebook where she kept her own notes. “How about Martha Wisner? I saw she had visitors day before yesterday. People from her church?”

“Nobody today. I don’t think she has any family. At least no one she’s close to. But the church people come regularly.”

“I’m working at her church now, too,” Elisa said. “They showed me a quilt they’re making for her. Maybe they already gave it to her?”

“The one with the leaves? It’s really something. The ladies signed their names on the back. It’s a good way to help her stay in touch with her memories. If you get the chance and she’s up, you could ask her about it.”

“I’ll do that.” Elisa finished her notes, then said goodbye to Kathy, who couldn’t get out quickly enough. The aide liked her job, but by shift’s end she was always ready to head home.

Kathy had done rounds as her shift came to a close, but as she always did, Elisa went from room to room checking on the residents and making sure they were asleep, or at least contented. The unit was a transitional one. None of the residents here suffered from serious dementia, but none fit into the assisted living wing, either. They needed a secure unit and regular supervision. Some were returning from hospital stays and needed daily nursing care. Sadly, some were headed toward the Alzheimer’s unit, where the care was more specialized and controlled. For now, though, they were able to live with less care and fewer restrictions.

One resident was awake and insisted on a shower. Elisa helped her in and out, and laid out a fresh nightgown. Another couldn’t find a book. Elisa found it and helped her get comfortable in bed, making a mental note to come back in a little while to put the book away and turn out the light.

She was not surprised to find so many residents awake. “Sundowning” was a common enough occurrence here and nearly universal on the Alzheimer’s unit. The internal clock of many of the residents was turned around, and they preferred to sleep during the day and be active at night. Although the staff tried hard to readjust the residents’ sense of time, they were often not successful.

Halfway down the hall, she peeked into Martha Wisner’s room, but the old woman was fast asleep and everything was in order. She passed on.

Hours later, when she returned to do Martha’s vitals, she found her sitting up, staring out the window into the darkness.

Martha was a short woman, with a thick head of permed white hair, and a round face with smooth pink cheeks and furrowed brow. She was dressed in a long cotton gown, which fell straight from her shoulders and outlined neither breasts nor hips.

“Martha? You’re up awfully early,” Elisa told her. “It’s not even five a.m.”

“Is it time for dinner?”

Elisa had sometimes awakened from a nap unsure where she had fallen asleep or what time of day it was. She imagined this was the way many of the residents on this unit felt, only for them, a little light through a windowpane, a glance at the clock, didn’t solve the mystery. She could relate to the confusion and empathize.

“It’s not quite time for breakfast,” Elisa told her. “The sun will be up very soon though. It’s early morning.”

“Didn’t I just have lunch?”

“No. You had dinner about twelve hours ago. That’s why you’re hungry.”

“I want to eat now.”

Although it was best to keep the residents on schedule for meals, Elisa was also allowed to bend the rules. She was sure Martha would not go back to sleep.

“I’ll bring you cereal. Then you can eat a hot breakfast with the others later.” There was a small dining area where the residents could eat their meals together if they chose. Some enjoyed the company.

“And juice?”

“And juice. I’ll be right back.”

Elisa returned a few minutes later with a tray. She wondered if Martha would remember asking for it and was pleased to find that she did. She settled the old woman in a chair and set the tray on a table in front of her.

“Let me check your vitals first,” she told her. She used the wrist meter that measured temperature, blood pressure, pulse and respiration, and recorded the data. Then she took the cover off the tray.

“Orange juice. Good. And I like this cereal.” Martha looked pleased.

Elisa watched her pour milk from the small carton and mix it into her Special K. “How do you feel? Did you sleep well?”

“Are you new?”

“No. But I’m not here as often as some of the others. I’m Elisa Martinez.”

Martha paused, as if searching her memory. Then she shook her head. “I haven’t met you before.”

Martha’s lack of recognition wasn’t a good sign. She and Martha had spoken many times. “Well, I’ll be working at the Shenandoah Community Church when I’m not working here. I’ve just been hired to be the new sexton. You remember the church?”

Martha frowned. For a moment Elisa was afraid she had forgotten that, too; then Martha nodded her head. “Of course, and do you think I can’t remember my own name?”

Elisa smiled. “People there care very much about you.”

“They gave me something.” Martha added new furrows to her brow. “Just lately.” The furrows smoothed. “A quilt. In the dresser over there. Will you get it for me?”

Elisa found the quilt folded neatly in the bottom drawer. She shook it out and took it back to Martha. “It’s lovely. Look at the colors.” She turned it over. “And look, here are the names of the women who made it for you.” She read them out loud, coming to Helen Henry at the end. “Helen Henry. I’m going to be living with her for a while. Her quilts are beautiful.”

“I never cared for doing hand work. My mother despaired of me. But I could cook. How I loved to cook.”

Elisa tucked the quilt over Martha’s lap. “This will keep you warm.”

Martha looked up at her. “Maybe we did meet before. Or maybe you just look like somebody....”

Elisa touched her hair. “You eat your breakfast, Miss Wisner. I’ll be back in a little while to get the tray. Can I get you anything else?”

“People here are nice.” Martha went back to eating.

Elisa was glad the woman was happy.

Chapter Eight

SAM WAITED UNTIL the day after Newt Rafferty’s funeral for his visit to George Jenkins. More than a week had passed since he stood by Newt’s bedside with the Rafferty family and watched his friend pass peacefully away. The funeral had been attended by more than a hundred people, and more than a dozen of them participated in the service.

Unless he turned his life around, George’s funeral would be a different occasion entirely.

The late August sun was high overhead when Sam pulled into the parking lot of Jenkins Landscaping. Enough time had passed since the fiesta that Sam hoped George would be well into contrition. He wasn’t expecting it, though.

At his best, George was a gadfly who saw the world’s myriad faults and made sure they were fixed. George had orchestrated a capital fund drive to replace the church roof. George made sure the trees and shrubs were pruned and fertilized, and the grass cut properly.

Unfortunately, at his worst George was a bully who wanted complete control over the way problems were solved. No one on the board of deacons had been able to convince him that the cheaper brand of shingles he’d insisted on was inferior. A year into Sam’s ministry, the roof began to leak again. And even though the grounds were tidy and attractive now, Sam was still concerned George was exploiting the men who did the work.

So Sam didn’t expect today’s visit to go well. In fact, in comparison, that morning’s session with the church finance committee to trim next year’s budget had been pure pleasure.

He parked just a few feet from Jenkins’s office, a small prefab building across the lot from a sizeable greenhouse. A modest beige brick home with a narrow front porch stood back from both, on the side of a low hill. Sam didn’t have to knock on doors to find George. He was standing to one side at the front of a group of men, and before Sam even turned off the engine, he could hear him shouting.

“You don’t like what I’m paying, you go work for somebody else. You think there aren’t a million more just like you who’ll do the work cheaper? You think you’ve got real skills you can sell? Go be a doctor or a lawyer if you want more money!”

Sam got out of his car, but only after struggling with himself. Trying to talk to George was the right choice. But the other possibility, going behind his back to neutralize him—much the same as George was doing—was far more appealing.

George turned his head to see Sam approaching. For the briefest moment he looked embarrassed, like a boy caught bullying the new kid; then the moment ended and his scowl returned. He waved the men away, making it clear he was finished with them. They had started off toward the greenhouse before he stalked over to Sam.

“These people! You think we’d put out a red carpet from here to Mexico, the way they act. Doesn’t matter what I give them, what I do, it’s not enough. I tell them they start getting paid the minute they start working, but no, that’s not good enough. They want to be paid for the hour they stood around waiting to see if I was going to hire them this morning. They can go back to Tijuana for all I care.”

Sam took time for a deep breath before he thrust out his hand. “Good morning, George.”

George’s hesitation was noticeable, but grudgingly he accepted Sam’s hand for the briefest of shakes. “I know you and your kind, too. You think I’m not being fair, don’t you?”

“I just got here. I wasn’t privy to your conversation with those men.”

“I know what you think. Treat every one of them like they’re good hard workers, even if they aren’t. Oh, some are, I’ll give you that. I’ve had a few men I could trust to do exactly what I was paying them to. But most of ’em?” He made a derisive sound deep in his throat. “They’d lie in the sun and drink tequila all day if they had their way.”

Sam tried to speak gently, as if he could remember at that moment why he had chosen ministry as his life’s work. “For that matter, I’d lie in the sun all day if I could, George. So would you. But that doesn’t mean any of us will actually do it. You and I know we have responsibilities, and these men are no different. That’s why they’re here looking for work at minimal pay instead of hawking drugs in the barrio.”

“Hell, these people aren’t anything like you or me, and that’s what you don’t get. That’s why all this do-gooder stuff you’re forcing down our throats is just a big waste of time. These people don’t belong here. Not here at my place, not here at the church, not here in this country. And now I’m forced to hire a Spanish-speaking foreman just to stay on top of them. You know what that’s going to cost me?”

About half what it should, but Sam knew better than to say so.

“I ought to send them all packing,” George said.

Sam attempted to reason. “Just out of curiosity, if these men weren’t here, who would do your work? I don’t see any born-and-bred Shenandoah boys lined up at your gate. How many of Leon’s friends applied for jobs working outside in the hot summer sun?”

“That’s not what you came about, is it?”

“I’m afraid it’s an example. It’s clear you and I don’t see eye to eye on a number of things, and even clearer that you’d like to see me disappear so you can find a minister who’s more your style.”

“That about sums it up. You sure came with three strikes against you, didn’t you? I don’t know how many more the board thought they needed not to hire you.”

Sam ignored George’s speech. “The problem is, there may not be any ministers you’d find agreeable. We ministers are supposed to challenge you. We all need to be challenged or we’ll never change. If the next minister didn’t challenge you, he wouldn’t be earning his pay, and we know how you’d feel about that.”

George shoved his hands in the pockets of baggy pants. “You think I need changing? I’m raising a son by myself. You don’t have kids. You probably never worked a full day at a real job. You don’t know what it’s like to run a business or do the things I do.”

There was no point in explaining that a church was like a business, and that nothing was more real—or exhausting—than the mission each good minister or rabbi, priest or mullah, embarked on: to open hearts and minds to the love of God.

“I’ve got a story about this,” Sam said instead.

George sniffed. “I don’t have time for your stories.”

“Humor me.” Sam heard the edge creeping into his own voice.

For a moment he thought George would leave him standing there, but the other man shrugged. “Make it short.”

“Your situation here is what reminded me,” Sam began. “Only the man in my story owned a vineyard, not a landscaping business. One morning this man needed some extra laborers, so he went to the market where they congregated and hired the number he thought he’d need. Then, later in the day when he went back to the market, he saw a few more men who needed work and thought, ‘Maybe I’ll just hire them, too, and get things finished quicker.’”

“Are you finished yet?”

“Given the chance, I’ll be finished in a minute.”

George narrowed already narrow eyes.

Sam continued, trying to tamp down his anger. “So the vineyard owner hired the extra men. Fortunately, he was a man who could change his mind, and as the day progressed, he hired more and more workers as he saw there was more to be done.”

“What in the hell are you getting at?” George demanded.

“Let me cut to the chase. When the workday was finished, there were a number of men waiting to be paid. But when the foreman paid them, the men discovered every one had gotten the same amount of money, no matter when they started.”

“Then either the foreman or the owner of your vineyard was a fool.”

“Maybe not,” Sam said. “You see, right at the beginning the owner told the first men what he would pay them, so that’s what he paid. It was his decision to pay the other men just as much. In fact he said, ‘So the last shall be first, and the first last.’”

“You’re speaking in a bunch of damned riddles.”

“You’ll find that particular riddle in the book of Matthew. It’s one of the parables of Jesus. He didn’t want His words to be easy. We’re supposed to think hard about their meaning before we apply them to our lives. I think the point is that God is merciful and His grace is given through mercy, not through a calculation of the hours we’ve put into doing the right thing or working hard. Likewise—and no less important—it’s our job to be as merciful in our dealings as God is in His.”

“You think this means something to me?”

“I think it could, if you let it. There’s nothing to be gained by working as hard as you do, George, unless you’re doing it with a merciful heart. And there’s nothing to be gained by putting ourselves above anybody else. The last shall be first and the first last. We’re all God’s children, and He doesn’t care if we start life with a vineyard or as the laborer pruning the grapes. The reward’s the same.”

“You think I should lie down and roll over, let these men—let you, of all people—walk over me?”

Whatever patience Sam had snapped. “I think you need to take a deep breath and ask yourself any number of questions, starting with whether you could better serve the Lord by being kinder and more understanding.”

George tried to interrupt, but Sam cut him off with an angry swipe of his hand. “You have a job to do here. You can encourage these men, help them find a place in the community and your company, and pay them fairly. You can practice mercy at every turn. We’re all better for making the attempt, even when we don’t feel like it.”

“Get off my property.”

Nothing would have pleased him more, but Sam didn’t move. He took a moment to calm himself, to ask what he wanted to accomplish before he spoke again. And in those quiet seconds, he realized where he had failed.

“No matter how badly I tell it, it’s a good story. We’re all tempted to feel superior to other people. Maybe I’ve been guilty of that myself. I came here to understand you better, and I haven’t asked you how you’re feeling, or what’s going on with you to make you so angry at everybody and everything. I’ve just been preaching at you, because you make me angry, too.”

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