40 Cliff Crescent

By Barb McIntyre

Nancy's bridge club meets every Wednesday at one o'clock. They play serious bridge until one team has won two out of three rubbers. Then they share an hour or two of delicious, coffee-flavoured tidbits. As Nancy reminisces about their conversations, she weaves in details about her past life, her husband's death, her tenants, and her day-to-day activities.
When Nancy's late husband, Daniel, turned their garage into an apartment, he couldn't have known that Nancy would have to deal with a tenant who used an alias and paid his rent with stolen money. Nor that the men the tenant had double-crossed would come looking for what was left of that money.
When Louise rented the apartment, she could never have guessed what agreeing to take care of the previous tenant's cat would lead to.
And Kevin knew a lot more than either of them before he rented the apartment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667886794

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

It was eleven fifteen on Tuesday morning. The early September sunshine filled Nancy’s kitchen and framed the stains, and small cracks, in the old oak table. The boys were now in their forties, and nobody had smoked in this house for at least twenty years, but Nancy could still see the splotches left by magic markers and the small cigarette burn, her late husband, Daniel, had etched into the wood. Nancy was sitting at the table, an almost empty mug of cold coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. The mug had been full and the coffee hot, when she and her friend, Olivia, started talking. Like the other two women in their bridge group, Nancy and Olivia were in their sixties, retired, and the men they had married in their twenties were dead.

Olivia and Nancy were unrepentant eavesdroppers, and today Olivia was telling Nancy about the couple who rented the apartment next to hers. Thomas Burke, according to Olivia, was a polite, friendly man who often spent a few minutes chatting with Olivia. Elizabeth Baker, his fiancée, was always in too much of a hurry and would rush past Olivia, with her nose up in the air, when they met in the corridor.

Nancy did have stories about the people she saw while volunteering at the hospital’s help desk, but she sometimes wished that the man who lived in the apartment in her garage would say or do something interesting. Daniel had called the short, thin man with the soft voice a ‘neat freak loner.’ The man was a perfect tenant. You rarely saw or heard him.

So, last night, Thomas was working late. Elizabeth, Olivia drew out each syllable and spoke the name with mock respect, had a friend over. They sat out on the balcony, and I could hear every word. All she did was complain about poor Thomas. According to her, Thomas’ mother made a religion out of recycling, and he’d been completely converted. His constant nagging about how she throws good food away, how she doesn’t wash the jars before putting them in the blue bin, and how she wastes paper towels is driving her up the wall. His definition of edible isn’t hers, and she does rinse the damn jars out first, most of the time, anyway. Then she was off on how much she hated living here. I didn’t know this, but Thomas is up for a promotion. She really wants him to get New York, but she’ll settle for Vancouver as a stepping stone. She can’t wait to live in a decent apartment in a decent city. I’m going to miss him, but I’ll be glad to see the last of her.

I just read an article about Vancouver, Nancy said. Apparently, if all Canadians were as slim, active, and tobacco-free as Vancouverites, it would decrease our health care spending by ten percent.

Oh, she’ll fit right in then, Olivia said. I told you she’s a health nut. Thomas may have a thing about recycling, but she has a thing about fitness. She works out for at least an hour a day, and she only eats organic. What little she does eat. I know my being overweight isn’t healthy, but being as thin as she is has to be just as unhealthy, only in a different way. Anyhow, que debe ser será, Olivia added after a deep sigh.

I thought the line was que será, será, Nancy said. Whatever will be will be.

Nancy remembered the song very well. She was nine years old when it came out, and it seemed to Nancy that if her mother wasn’t singing the song, she was humming it. Nancy’s mother was a big Doris Day fan. She’d seen every one of the singer’s movies and knew the lyrics to all of her songs.

Que debe ser será means what should be will be. I like that version better, Olivia said. "You know, the whole ‘it’ll happen if it’s meant to be’ philosophy. A girl who used to babysit for us was from Mexico. She taught the boys a few Spanish phrases, and that’s one of the ones that stuck.

Actually, that reminds me of my sister’s story. It happened about two years before she died. She had an appointment with her bank. They’d talked about switching some of her investments over to another fund, and she was going in to sign the papers. The morning of the appointment, her horoscope told her to go over personal papers carefully before making a commitment that would tie up her money. She got spooked and decided to cancel the appointment as soon as the bank opened. Then she realized that she’d read the wrong horoscope. She’d read Scorpio’s, and she’s a Sagittarius. Her horoscope actually said that an investment would pay off, so she went in and signed the papers. Long story short, she’d have done better if she’d listened to the wrong horoscope.

I can’t believe that people actually make decisions based on those things, Nancy said.

Olivia snorted. Mine promises love and romance at least twice a week. I’m still waiting.

They throw out so many predictions that some have to hit home once in a while. Mine, this morning, was to expect the unexpected, Nancy said just before she heard her phone’s call waiting beep.

I’ve got a call coming in, Olivia, Nancy said. It must be the optician telling me that my new glasses have arrived.

No! Olivia chuckled. It has to be something unexpected. Anyway, I’ll let you go. We’ve gabbed too much already. See you tomorrow.

Right, Nancy said before switching over to her other caller. Nancy recognized the voice right away. She wondered why the social worker, who’d helped her so much before and after Daniel died, would be calling her now.

Nancy, this is Susan Parker.

You were very helpful, Susan. Thank you. But I’m fine now. Well, not exactly fine. But as good as can be expected. I don’t really think there’s anything else you can do.

I’m actually calling about your tenant, Edwin Saunders, the woman said.

Edwin? I don’t understand. How do you know Edwin?

Mr. Saunders was involved in a serious accident this morning. A speeding truck went through a red light and hit him while he was crossing the street. A young girl was hit as well, but her injuries are minor, and she’s been treated and released. Mr. Saunders, I’m sorry to say, was not so fortunate. He’s in the intensive care unit, and he’s not conscious at the moment.

Oh, no! But why are you calling me? I’m only his landlady. I don’t really know the man.

There was a short silence before the social worker said, Yours is the only emergency number in his wallet, Nancy. Is there any way you could come in and talk to me? There were other papers in his wallet as well. One of them is a will. It really would be better for us to talk face to face. Mr. Saunders’ condition is very serious.

Nancy shivered as she walked down the long hospital corridor. The walls were still the ugly orange colour she’d hated, but the old brown tiles had been replaced, and the new white tiles looked clean.

She suddenly remembered sitting across the kitchen table from Daniel one morning many years ago. They were both quietly reading the newspaper when Daniel started laughing out loud.

There’s an article in here about colours, he said. You know those new blue walls in our bedroom? Well, according to this, the colours we choose make a statement. Blue says trust and peace. It can also suggest conservatism and, he put the paper down, raised his eyebrows, grinned at her, and said, frigidity.

Nancy chuckled. I suppose the article says that your choice would have been better. And we both know that the only reason you chose green was because the cute salesgirl said that’s what she had in her bedroom.

Green, Daniel held the paper up again and read, is the colour of balance and growth. It soothes pain and is associated with optimism.

He put the paper down, picked up his empty coffee mug, and gestured at Nancy’s half-empty one. She shook her head. He went over to the counter, emptied the coffee pot into his mug, and came back to the table.

You know I chose blue because it’s supposed to be a relaxing colour, Nancy said. The book I read said it lowers blood pressure and gives a sense of security. Besides, I won that coin toss fair and square, remember?

Daniel nodded and grinned the lopsided grin she still found so endearing as he sat back down across from her. You did. And we both know that I don’t give a fig about the colour of the walls. I’m just yanking your chain.

Nancy was jolted back into the present by Susan Parker’s voice calling, In here, Nancy. I’m in here.

Nancy had been about to walk past room 311 even though she’d been looking for it. The last number she remembered seeing was 301.

As Nancy sat down in one of the three chairs facing Susan’s desk, she recognized Edwin’s well-worn, brown leather messenger bag and the wallet she saw every time he came to pay his rent. He always paid in cash and always one day before it was due. She also noticed a few large envelopes beside the wallet.

She listened carefully while Susan told her that the wallet contained a bus pass, just over two hundred dollars in cash, and a library card. Three library books, a protein bar, two legal documents, and a letter addressed to Daniel and Nancy Eldridge had also been found in the bag.

The only thing in the man’s pocket had been an ancient cell phone. The only calls in the phone’s history were to taxis and to the three used bookstores in town. His contact list was empty.

You can read these for yourself later, Nancy, Susan held up the documents and the envelope. I haven’t opened the letter, but I have read the legal documents. And I’ve been in contact with the lawyer involved. They’re quite legitimate. One is a will. Mr. Saunders has named you and Daniel as his beneficiaries on the condition that you continue to care for his cat. The other, and this is the one we have to talk about, gives you and Daniel Power of Attorney for his finances and personal care. I know this is a bit much to take in, but the man’s condition is critical, to say the least. The doctor tells me that there is almost no sign of brain activity.

Nancy sat patiently, listening to the social worker’s soft, rhythmical voice. The woman was explaining that Ed was on a ventilator, a machine that was blowing a mixture of oxygen and air into his lungs as well as inflating and deflating them on a regular basis. The blow to the back of his head had severely damaged the respiratory control center at the base of his brain. His brain could no longer send out the signals needed to control his breathing. They had done and redone all the tests. There was zero probability of Edwin’s heart continuing to beat for any length of time if the ventilator were to be removed. There was zero probability of his ever-regaining consciousness.

Nancy interrupted the lecture, suddenly realizing where the conversation was heading. She pointed a shaking index finger at the papers on the cluttered desk. You want me to give permission to pull the plug! That piece of paper means that I have to decide whether Edwin lives or dies.

Susan Parker nodded sadly. I’m afraid that’s right, Nancy. But to be clear, Mr. Saunders is already dead. His brain is dead. His body is …

I know. I know, Nancy said, shaking her head. I get it. And he told us that he had no living relatives when he moved in. He was an only child of only children. Daniel and I thought it was sad, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He seemed happy. Always had a smile on his face and something nice to say.

CHAPTER TWO

Nancy read the letter and let out a great sigh of relief when she realized that she wasn’t responsible for any decisions regarding the man’s life or death. In his small but clearly legible handwriting Edwin apologized for the imposition but knew that they were good people, and that he trusted them to take proper care of Her Majesty, his cat. He’d listed the seven hardcover books in his bookcase that were collector’s items and gave the names and numbers of two used bookstores that would pay well for them. That money should be used to keep Her Majesty in the style she’d grown accustomed to. He’d even outlined the daily and weekly steps involved in cleaning out Her Majesty’s litter box.

He’d also made it clear that he didn’t want to be kept alive by artificial means. He didn’t want any life-sustaining procedures, nutrition given intravenously, orally, or by gastric tube, CPR, or any treatment for any illness other than pain relief. If any of these interventions occurred without his knowledge or consent, he wanted them stopped immediately.

Nancy knew that the words he used were standard in many living wills. She and Daniel had copied them from a website and written their own living wills. She remembered Daniel joking that they should be called dying wills, not living wills.

Nancy told Susan that although she had mixed feelings about the cat, she did feel obliged to honour the request. She wasn’t sure why. She also agreed to take care of having Edwin’s body cremated and his ashes buried according to his wishes.

‘You don’t have to dig deep, Daniel,’ Edwin had written. ‘Just deep enough so that they won’t blow away. Under the old lilac bush would be good. You know the spot.’

Nancy knew the spot he meant. It was where he’d sat for hours stretched out on one of the old Adirondack chairs. He’d rest his elbows on the armrests and his book on the oversized pillow on his lap. More than once he’d been so involved in his book that he hadn’t heard them call his name. Some of the time he read library books, but mostly he read books he bought and then sold back to second-hand bookstores.

It suddenly occurred to Nancy that somebody should be with Edwin when they, in his own words, stopped the interventions that had occurred without his knowledge. Nobody should have to die alone. The hospital staff would be there, of course. But that wasn’t the same. After a short fight with her conscience, Nancy accepted the fact that she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t sit with him. It was some sort of karma, she supposed. Daniel had died alone in a hospital bed. She hadn’t been there for him in those last few minutes. Now, somehow, fate had arranged for her to redeem herself by being there for an almost stranger.

She hadn’t missed the social worker’s frown at her use of the expression pull the plug, so she asked if she could be with him when they removed the ventilator.

Twenty minutes later, Nancy was sitting quietly beside Edwin’s bed. She’d noticed the blue, white, red, and green lines progressing in waves from one side of the small screen near his head to the other. She remembered watching the waves on a very similar machine attached to Daniel’s body for many hours in the emergency room, two floors below, for several hours before they decided that he was stable and moved him to a ward. Daniel’s machine had beeped constantly. Nancy was grateful that the pretty, tall nurse, with the long blonde braid that hung down her back, had pressed a button on Edwin’s machine and silenced it.

But Nancy’s attention was completely focused on Edwin’s left shoulder. A colourful tattoo of the face and neck of a snarling wolf covered part of his chest and upper arm. One of the leads attached to his chest had been placed on top of the wolf’s right ear. The sheet that covered his thin body almost touched the teardrop-shaped mane at the base of the wolf’s neck. The bottom part of the wolf’s mouth was on Ed’s chest, and the top part was on his arm. She visualized him lifting his arm up and the wolf’s mouth opening wider and wider. Nancy was beyond surprised at the tattoo. It was completely out of character for the man. And it wasn’t just that he had a tattoo. It was the tattoo itself. It was an angry, snarling, dangerous-looking wolf.

A tall, gaunt-looking man in a lab coat approached the bed. He informed Nancy that he was just going to change the tubes here.

She watched the man pull a plastic tube away from the device in Ed’s mouth and replace it with another, thinner one. He fiddled with a few dials on the panel on the wall over Edwin’s head, turned, smiled at her, and left.

She recognized the panel and the tube. It was oxygen. They had given Daniel oxygen from a panel just like that after his transfer to the ward. But that had only lasted for the first night, and his oxygen had been delivered through two thin tubes in his nostrils, not the big, uncomfortable-looking device strapped to Edwin’s head.

So, they don’t actually ‘pull the plug,’ she thought after the man left. The man looked exactly the same as he had, but everybody knew what had just happened. Oxygen was flowing out of the tube and into his lungs, but the device that had been inflating and deflating his lungs was no longer attached. She wondered if that had been done for her benefit, if they would just have just taken the device out of his mouth and stopped everything if she weren’t there.

Nothing happened. The waves didn’t change. A passing nurse stopped to ask if she needed anything, and Nancy thanked her and said that she was fine. The doctor had come into Susan’s office and explained that Edwin’s heart would gradually stop beating. It might take minutes. It might take hours.

Nancy read the two legal documents from beginning to end more than once and marvelled at how simple things could be said in such a complicated way. She looked up and stareed at the tattoo from time to time, and she checked the monitor regularly. The waves were getting slower, fewer, and smaller. If she looked carefully, she thought she could see Edwin’s chest move under the sheet that covered him, and she was sure she’d seen his eyelids flicker a few times.

She also reread the letter. It explained that he was an only child of only children, but she already knew that. And she’d never seen anyone visit him, not once. So, she shouldn’t be surprised that he had no friends. But it was so sad to think that there was no one else in his life, that his landlords, people he greeted politely in passing, were the closest thing to friends he had. Had she known how alone he was, she would have … She would have what? Spent more time with him? Invited him over for meals? She wasn’t sure. And, as she’d told Susan Parker, he hadn’t seemed to be unhappy. He always seemed to be in a good mood. He was always smiling. He hadn’t seemed to be a man who needed anything.

The letter was polite and neat, just like the man himself. He’d expressed himself well, but then, that was to be expected. He was a reader. There was always a newly released hardcover from the library in the messenger bag he carried everywhere. And the man spent hours in the library every day. He’d told Daniel that he read three newspapers, two weekly magazines, and three monthly magazines, from cover to cover. He had basic cable hooked up in the apartment but told them that he didn’t need phone or internet services. He had his cell phone, and he’d book time on one of the library computers when he needed to.

The fact that the letter outlined the steps involved in cleaning out the cat’s litter box in such detail didn’t surprise her. The man had been obsessed with neatness and cleanliness. What did surprise her was that he hadn’t rewritten the letter after Daniel’s death and addressed it directly to her. The possibility of the death of one of the beneficiaries was taken care of in the will, but Edwin had left the letter addressed to both of them. Had he planned to rewrite it and procrastinated, or had he just forgotten? That would have been very out of character for him. She’d have put a bet on the man sitting down and rewriting the letter the day Daniel died; or the next day at the very latest. Maybe he was too upset by Daniel’s death. No. They weren’t that close. That he’d left such a loose end hanging for so long was a real mystery. The man had been such a stickler for details. His clothes were always clean, and he always smelled as if he’d just had a shower.

Nancy hadn’t been in the apartment since Edwin had moved in, and Daniel had only been in it twice in the three years the man had lived there, once to replace a tap and once to replace the window air conditioner. He told Nancy that the man won gold for sparse and spotless. The kitchen counter was bare except for a kettle and a few clean dishes in a small dish drainer. There was nothing on the kitchen table or on the top of the small dresser in the bedroom. There were old hardcover books, a few used paperbacks, a stack of CD’s, and a small CD player on the small bookcase beside the sofa. There was a small television on the low four-drawer cabinet across from the sofa. The coffee table was bare except for the TV remote. No decorations. No mementoes. No pictures except for the forest scene I’d chosen to liven up the living room. But the fact that Edwin wrapped his food waste in newspaper before putting it in the green bin said it all, as far as Nancy was concerned. He wrapped it the way butchers wrapped meat, with both corners tightly tucked in.

Daniel’s description of Edwin’s apartment hadn’t surprised Nancy, but she pretended that it had. Daniel had been annoyed when he found her peering in through the side window and ‘spying’ on their first tenant. Nancy thought the word spying was a bit harsh, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. What Daniel called spying, Nancy called keeping an eye on their property. When things got messy, and they did, there was nothing she could do about it, but somehow knowing was better than not knowing. It wasn’t that she would, or could, do anything about what she saw. It was just that she had to know, one way or the other.

Nancy looked at the monitor and saw that the lines weren’t exactly straight, but there were no real waves happening. She was just about to call a nurse when she saw one tiny wave appear and move slowly toward the right of the screen. She sighed, sat back, and noticed that the long fingers of Edwin’s right hand almost touched the call bell that had been tied to the bed rail. They’d pinned a call bell to the side rail on Daniel’s bed, too, even though they all knew that, just like Edwin, Daniel had no idea it was there.

Suddenly, all the old feelings, the old memories, the ones she thought she’d buried, were back. The hours she’d sat beside Daniel’s bed in that uncomfortable chair in the nursing home, the empty feeling inside, the dread, the sensation of tears that were close enough to sting but not close enough to leak out, she could feel every one of them again. She remembered watching Daniel’s body waste away but thinking, knowing, that she wasn’t looking at the man she’d loved for all those years. He was gone, completely gone. That limp shell that was still breathing, that heart that was still beating, they had nothing to do with Daniel. And all the guilt she thought she’d come to terms with, that she thought she’d worked through, was back as if it had never left.

She remembered looking down at the face that was but at the same time wasn’t Daniel’s face and suddenly thinking of Mrs. Faulkner, her tenth-grade English teacher, who made her students memorize long passages. A quote from Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities popped into Nancy’s head, and she sat there paraphrasing the quote. She was definitely in the worst of times. This was her season of Darkness. This was her winter of despair. My best of times is gone, she thought. There is no Light, no hope. Then she’d taken a deep breath, picked up the book on her lap, and started reading out loud.

The guilt over not being there when Daniel had the stroke was one thing. The guilt over not being there when he died was another. They were both bad enough, but they were nothing compared to the real guilt that kept her awake at night. The guilt that had caused very real and very painful heartburn that no medication could soothe. It was something she hadn’t even admitted to the social worker. She hadn’t been able to push it out of her head, no matter how hard she’d tried. The truth was that she’d resented every minute in that dismal place. They’d tried to make it cheerful. She remembered the bright colours, the always helpful, always smiling staff, and the perky background music. It was never loud. It was just there. And she’d hated it all.

She’d hated every minute of doing the right thing, every minute of pretending to be a loving wife. She wasn’t there because she wanted to be. She wasn’t there because she loved the man she fed three times a day, pushed around the corridors in a wheelchair, and read to for hours. She was there for appearances. She wanted to feel love for the man in that bed. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t there. That wasn’t her husband. She couldn’t make herself feel that it was, no matter how hard she tried. She was there because it was the right thing to do. Daniel had deserved more, and she hadn’t been able to give it to him.

Nancy was startled back into reality by a soft voice calling her name.

Mrs. Eldridge. Mrs. Eldridge.

Nancy looked over at the tiny girl wearing mauve scrubs. Her first thought was that the girl couldn’t possibly be more than sixteen years old. The second thought was to wonder if they actually sold scrubs in the children’s department.

Mr. Saunders’ monitor has shown no activity for several minutes, the nurse explained. I’m afraid he’s gone.

Nancy watched the woman reach over and turn the monitor off. The little screen went black, and the only slightly uneven lines disappeared.

CHAPTER THREE

Nancy

I had as little energy this morning as I had sleep last night, but I managed to throw together and deliver a Shepherd’s pie. It’s one of my go-to recipes for days when I’m not up to par for whatever reason. I perfected the foolproof recipe years ago, but it only rates three stars because of its simplicity. For a dish to rate above three stars, there has to be creativity involved. It has to be distinctive. I also baked a tray of caramel apple oatmeal cookies (83 calories, 2 grams of fat, and five stars.)

Eileen Nash, Olivia Benson, and Anita Johnston all arrived at the same time this afternoon. Of course, they wanted to hear all about yesterday. And I obliged with every little detail I could remember. It was a half hour before we finally got to the dining room table and dealt the cards. That’s unusual. We meet every Wednesday afternoon at one. Our routine doesn’t usually vary; serious bridge only until one team has won two out of three rubbers, then an hour or two of what my mother called a vulgar indulgence and my grandmother called a sin. The Bible said so.

My grandmother lived with us for most of my childhood, and the woman loved to quote Proverbs.

Whoever belittles his neighbour lacks sense, but a man of understanding remains silent.

"Whoever goes