Free January Thaw (The Murder-By-Month Mysteries) by Jess Lourey Page B

teacher’s chuffing each other around a table, talking about active and experiential learning. In reality, we were already struggling with acne and the unshakeable belief that human interaction was merely a set-up for humiliation à la face plants, sneeze-farts, spontaneously inappropriate confessions, and/or getting the answer wrong. To expect us to navigate an unfamiliar elderly population was pure cruelty.
    Because of that experience, and because in my teens and twenties I’d been confident I’d never grow old and so why bother hanging out with those who were, I’d never entered another nursing home. Until I’d moved to Battle Lake. A series of circumstances led me to the Senior Sunset, and specifically to seek out Curtis Poling. He was believed to be in the middle stages of dementia by those who didn’t know him, an incorrect assumption that he cultivated by casting off the roof of the Sunset into the dry lawn in the back whenever it was sunny and “the fish were likely to be biting.” In truth, Curtis was as wily as they came, with sharp, clear blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He’d gone from being my informant to my friend, the man I visited weekly to play cards with, laugh with, and, in the summer, get gardening tips from. He’d also introduced me to Mrs. Berns last March, though she had since moved out of the nursing home and into her own apartment, labeling her temporary residency there a “misunderstanding.”
    Today, as I strolled into the foyer of the Senior Sunset, I was struck by how comfortable the predominant scents of a nursing home—antiseptics, Bengay, and dusty-floral old-lady perfume—had grown to me. I signed in at the front desk and made my way to Curtis’s room. I knocked at his door.
    “Who is it? Is it Satan? Because I’m not ready to go just yet.”
    “Hey, Curtis. It’s me. Mira.”
    “Timothy Leary? I’m too old for that psychedelic crap.”
    “Mira,” I repeated, keeping my voice level. I smiled as a short, chunky nursing assistant walked past, wearing burgundy scrubs and a suspicious expression. “Mira James.”
    “Etta James? What are you doing this far north?”
    I sighed. “I brought donuts.”
    “Door’s unlocked.”
    I let myself in. Curtis lived in a standard room, set up much like a hospital room except for the dresser and the plants in the window. His room featured a bed and a nightstand, a TV mounted to the ceiling, an easy chair by the window and a plastic chair for guests, a closet, and a private bath. He was sitting by the window, reading H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine . Upside down. When he was sure it was me, he flipped it right side up.
    “Why do you pretend?” I asked. “All the smart nurses must know you’re not crazy.”
    He shrugged. “I make it easy on ’em by being consistent. And the crazier I act, the more they leave me alone.” He was wearing a dark blue terry cloth robe. His thin calves poked out like chopsticks. Thankfully, his bony feet were stuffed into the toasty knit mukluks I’d bought him for Christmas after I’d accidentally caught him barefoot. Old farmer’s feet are the stuff of nightmares.
    “Where are they?” he asked.
    “What?”
    “The donuts.”
    “I lied about those.” I pulled up the plastic chair so I was sitting across from him. “What was the deal with giving me the runaround in the hall?”
    “New nursing assistant. Comes up about to your shoulders, shaped more like a square than a circle?”
    I nodded. “She passed by while I was trying to get in. She looked fine, maybe a little curious.”
    “Shows what you know. She’s convinced I’m not really crazy and has made it her mission to prove it.”
    “Smart, too. I think I like her.”
    He scrunched up his lips in a pout, and for a moment, he resembled a baby more than an old man.
    “Fine,” I said. “I’ll bring donuts next time. Promise. Do you have a few minutes right now?”
    “That might be all I have. Never know when the ticker is going