Read Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe for Free Online

today is out of the question.”
    The Forbidden City routine again. I was tempted to ask why not, but knew I’d be given some excuse like “They’ll be brushing their teeth.” Or they’d be oiling their wheelchairs.
    “How about tomorrow?”
    Her predictable answer was “Maybe next week.”
    I was in no mood to accept “maybe.” I said, “I’ll be there next Tuesday.” I said it with finality. No more fooling around.
    As I was about to hang up she said, “Whoa. Hold on. Let me check.”
    I waited while she did some checking, then came back on the line. ”Okay. Next Tuesday from two to two-fifteen in the afternoon. Sharp.”
    A whole fifteen minutes. Wow. I was afraid to ask what would happen to me if I overstayed my visit by a few seconds. Probably receive fifty lashes across my naked back. I thanked Freddie profusely for granting me access.
    The following Tuesday at 2 o’clock, sharp, I presented myself at the door to the Assisted Living and Care Center facility.
    I had been expected. The door opened as the second hand on my watch hit the 2 o’clock mark. I thought the door had been on a timer, until Fredricka’s face appeared in the open doorway. She raised a hand, consulted her watch, then dropped her hand like the starter at a track meet. I was on the clock.
    We took an elevator just inside the door, up to the next floor. It opened to a corridor.
    While she led the way without preliminary comment, I glanced around. The place was spotless, quiet as a morgue, the vinyl floor gleamed, the place smelled of Lemon Pledge.
    Off the corridor were ten or more doors, all closed. Alongside each door was a small sign designating the name of the occupant. Ahead I could see that the corridor joined at right angles to another wing. Like the Care Center in the floor below, the apartments in Assisted Living were aligned in an L formation. The only difference was that here a door marked Administrator took the place of a nurses’ desk. As we passed I said, “Do I get to meet Kurt Berman?”
    Fredricka shook her head. “He’s not here today.”
    Since there were no nurses in sight, I wondered who assisted the residents in Assisted Living. Before I had a chance to ask, Fredricka stopped at a door. A small sign read, “Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”
    She opened the door without knocking, consulted her watch and said, “You have until two-fifteen.”
    I walked into a small apartment containing a double bed, two easy chairs, a bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. Larry and Christine sat in wheelchairs, their legs covered by blankets. They both had smiles on their faces. They appeared to have gained some weight judging by the fullness of their faces which appeared robust with pink cheeks, as though they had been out in the sun. .
    Christine kept smiling and said, “Hello.”
    Because of her blindness, I wasn’t sure she recognized me.
    Larry’s head bobbed like one those bobblehead dashboard dolls. He said nothing which, of course, was not surprising considering his stroke-induced speech defect. However, he probably knew who I was and kept on smiling.
    “He doesn’t talk,” said a voice behind my back
    I turned. Fredricka stood at the door with her arms across her chest. I hadn’t realized she was still there. Probably to time my visit.
    I addressed Christine. “Chris, it’s me, Henry, your old next door neighbor.”
    Her head bobbed. “Yes.”
    I said, “How are you two doing?”
    Christine said, “Fine.”
    “This seems to be a pleasant apartment.”
    “Yes.”
    “Are they taking good care of you and Larry?”
    “Yes.”
    “How’s the food?”
    “Good.”
    “The place must be agreeing with you. You both look healthy, healthier than when you were in the Independent Living section.”
    “Yes.”
    Larry’s head never stopped bobbing. He never stopped smiling.
    A few more questions and comments from me. One word answers from Christine.
    Fredricka said, “Time’s up.”
    I said, “Well, it’s been great seeing