Wallpaper

                                         
                                            Photo: Online collection of Brooklyn Museum

The new wallpaper was the first sign of change that Walt Clayton noticed. A stern yellow -Walt’s daughter Molly would have labeled it “ocher”- with a beige border across the top emblazoned with a red fleur-de-lis pattern. He hadn’t paid much attention to the workmen who had recently crowded the corridors, scraping, sweating and swearing, and leaving for a brief interim yards of naked plaster. Assessing the garish design, Walt scowled. 

“On your feet!”

The shout came from behind him. Spinning his motorized wheelchair 90 degrees to find out who would make such an insensitive remark, he saw Kieran Ryan, a CNA at Sycamore Glen Nursing Center. Kieran was one of the new hires brought in last year after 12 workers were terminated for participating in a weekly pool where they wagered on which residents would die. One former employee, who had sought to tip the odds in his favor, was presently serving a life sentence. 

People who knew Walt were usually not shocked or offended at his often indelicate choice of words. His son Harry jokingly referred to him as "a nice curmudgeon."

"What the hell are you talking about?" 

"On Your Feet," Kieran obligingly repeated. "Rehabilitation and Recuperation Center. That's gonna be the new name of this place." 

The freckle-faced young man saw from the puzzled look on Walt's face that this terse explanation was insufficient, so he elaborated. Sycamore Glen was gradually transitioning to a rehab facility. The current residents, he assured Walt, would not have to leave, but all new admissions would be strictly on a temporary basis. The revised nomenclature was meant to reflect the new goals of the institution: to get patients back "on their feet" as soon as possible.

Although cynical by nature, Walt was often right on the mark with his observations on human nature. No one ever accused him of being tactful, however.

"They can't wait for us to die so they can replace us with patients whose insurance will pay $1500 a week," Walt said.

Kieran gave a forced laugh. Then with a patronizing pat on Walt's shoulder, he proceeded down the newly-decorated hallway, ostensibly to attend to some task.

"On Your Feet," Walt scoffed. 

Walt entered his modest quarters and noticed that his roommate Don was still asleep. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 9:11 a.m. Walt reached up with his right hand and flicked off the light switch by Don’s bed. 

Don went off like a cheap firecracker. Bolting upright, he cried, "Don't turn off the lights! Ghosts thrive in the dark!"

Probably half of Sycamore Glen's 80 residents were senile, but the 87-year old Don was perfectly coherent; he was just plagued by a couple of phobias. He was also half-deaf, and as a result shouted much of the time.

"Just trying to save electricity," Walt replied. "You were asleep." 

"What?" 

"I said you were asleep," Walt repeated at a significantly higher volume.

"I'm awake now," Don said. "Turn on the light."

With a soft groan, Walt complied. Then heading towards his side of the room, he pulled up the window shade to let in the morning sunlight, and grabbed a book lying on the dresser. He drew the pale blue curtain that separated the two beds, switched off his own light, and began reading. 

Two women were talking in the hallway. One was Betty Carver, whose primary function was bathing the residents. The other voice -that of a younger woman- Walt didn't recognize. Setting down his book, Walt strained to make out the conversation, but Don's snoring prevented this.

The broiled cod for supper was adequate, but as usual, the vegetables were overcooked, a situation which no amount of seasoning could remedy. Scanning the dining hall, Walt noticed that Don was nowhere to be found. The bedridden had their meals brought to them, but as one of the few ambulatory patients, Don prided himself on his mobility, even though he used a walker. For him missing a meal was atypical. Not giving the situation much more thought, Walt adjourned to the lounge and watched television for a while. Unimpressed with the rash of vulgar sitcoms that dominated the airwaves, he decided to return to his room and watch Fox News instead. 

"Missed you at dinner," he called to Don as Walt started to roll past his roommate’s bed. Walt halted abruptly, noticing a couple of inconsistencies. A stray white bath towel was lying on the floor. Even stranger was the fact that Don's light was off. Before Don could wake up screaming about ghosts, Walt flicked the switch. Don lay flat on his back, eyes wide open, face contorted into a mask of terror. A frozen hand clutched his chest. 

"Oh, shit," Walt muttered.

Though sarcastic by nature, Walt's son Harry knew when to exercise decorum. After listening to Walt's story, he shook his head and remarked, "Number six?"

Walt recited their names. "Tom, Jim, Eddie, Lew . . . Hmm. George, I think, and what's-his-face," he concluded ungraciously, referring to number six.

"Don," Harry supplied. 

"Right. Don."

Harry used to joke that there was an alarming coincidence between the growing number of Walt's deceased roommates and Walt's affinity for murder mysteries. After George Pendleton -number five- had in fact been murdered, Harry relented . . . somewhat. But that crime had been solved. The perpetrator had been the aforementioned employee who had attempted to “rig the death pool.” 

"You shoulda seen the look on Don's face," Walt recollected with a shudder. "Like he'd seen a ghost, which would explain a lot."

"So what was the official . . ."

Harry didn't finish his sentence. Father and son were interrupted by the entrance of a tall, slender woman with long black hair, and draped in a white lab coat. A stethoscope hung around her neck. Harry was momentarily mesmerized by the seductive clicking of her high heels as she approached. 

"Hi," she said. Extending a hand to whomever reached for it first, she added, "I'm Dr. Medea Kouros, the new head physician here at Sycamore Glen."

Walt reached out and squeezed two of her fingers noncommittally. "Walt Clayton," he informed her. "This is my son Harry." Harry nodded.

"What happened to Dr. Goldberg?" Harry asked.

"He retired," she replied. "I'm just taking a few days to get to know all of the residents."

Walt laughed humorlessly. "Why bother? Half of them will be dead in a couple of years, and the other half won't remember they met you."

Dr. Kouros didn't react. "I guess that you're both aware of the changes going on here at Sycamore Glen?"

Walt was on a roll. "The wallpaper?"

This time the doctor laughed politely, if insincerely. "The transition from a skilled nursing facility to a rehabilitation center."

Walt waved his hand dismissively, more at the subject than at Dr. Kouros, who nonetheless looked hurt. Making a clumsy segue, she offered her condolences to Walt regarding the passing of Don, who had succumbed to a heart attack. Then wishing father and son the best, the distaff doctor departed. There was something familiar about her voice, Walt thought, although he didn’t share this with his son.

"Medford Cappelli," a voice announced, causing Walt to look up from his ponderous edition of The Complete Sherlock Holmes. Walt had temporarily suspended his reading of detective stories in the wake of "Number Five's" untimely demise, but had gradually crept back into the realm of literary murder and mayhem. A tall, muscular man  of about 55 stood in front of Walt, offering a large hand. With the other hand he was clutching an aluminum crutch. His right knee was swathed in an ace bandage.

Walt closed the book, forgetting to mark where he was in "The Five Orange Pips." Fumbling with the thick tome, he reached up and shook hands with the stranger. As he did so, the 1200-page crime compendium tumbled to the floor.


With a groan of exertion, Walt's new roommate retrieved the book for him. Medford Cappelli -that was his name- informed Walt that he had been admitted that morning, and would spend four to six weeks recuperating from knee replacement surgery. Don had died on Tuesday, Walt recalled. Today was only Friday, and his replacement had already arrived. Typically the process took over a week.

Medford's wife and daughter soon appeared, carrying his personal effects. Mrs. Cappelli -Grace- smiled warmly at Walt, but her daughter Jessica didn't even look in his direction. Walt supposed that there were advantages to short-term roommates, the most obvious that if you didn't like them, you wouldn't have to put up with them for long. Medford Cappelli seemed okay, though.

Leaving the Cappellis to unpack, Walt wheeled out into the hallway and headed towards the lobby. He liked chatting with Diana, the receptionist. Pausing to answer his cell phone, he nearly collided with another wheelchair-bound resident going in the opposite direction. Ida Cooper, who at 94 was still as feisty as they came. And mean.

"Why don't you watch where you're going, young man?" she shrieked at the 79 year-old Walt. "You've got no business even driving that contraption!"

  "Drop dead!" Walt snapped back. He would later regret the almost prophetic remark.

Within two days Ida’s belongings had been removed and her formerly single-occupancy room equipped with an additional bed. Both beds were filled the following day. The new admissions were women in their forties. Harry tried to assure his father that Ida's passing had not been hastened by her confrontation with Walt. She had died in her sleep. Besides, Harry continued, Ida was constantly snarling at fellow residents, as well as staff members, with no apparent health repercussions.

“And you and Mom used to shout at each other all the time,” Harry reminded him. “Neither of you ever had a heart attack.”

Walt regarded his son thoughtfully for several seconds before replying “Oh, shut up!”

At that moment, a short, plump young woman waddled into the room. She wore a light green uniform with a name tag reading “Tammy Eustace.” Tucked under one arm was a bundle of towels and washcloths. 

“Walt, be nice!” she admonished mildly.

Walt looked at the chubby chider. Harry flinched, expecting his father to deliver the same retort. Instead Walt replied, “Why are you changing the towels today? It’s only Monday.”

“Monday is laundry day,” Tammy replied. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to change your bed linens, too.” 

As she was leaving, Walt asked, “What’s with the green outfit?”

“Part of the transition,” she answered. “By the end of the year, we’ll all hafta wear ‘em.”

Walt shook his head. “Doesn’t even match the wallpaper,” he mumbled.

Despite repeated warnings from the staff about curtailing his outdoor privileges if he remained "noncompliant," Walt continued to wander outside, riding around the building, often as late as 8:00 in the evening, shortly before the front doors locked and the receptionist left. Occasionally he even ventured as far as the parking lot of Our Most Blessed Lady Lutheran Convalescent Home, one-fourth of a mile behind Sycamore Glen. Once he had almost been locked out in a thunderstorm, and another time his wheelchair's battery died. Walt's intention wasn't to cause headaches for the staff; he was just restless. "Stay on the sidewalk in front of the building," Nancy the office manager scolded. "And don't go outside at night." Walt would simply nod, then do whatever he felt like.

The time was 7:45 p.m., according to Walt's wristwatch. Deciding to be a little more compliant this time, Walt began heading back. The previous evening he had come across three of the nurses on a cigarette break behind the building. They had been griping about the "new regulations," one of which included no smoking anywhere on the grounds.

Noticing Walt, one of the women remarked, "Walt, are you spying on us?"

"No," Walt stammered. "I was just-"

She laughed hard. "I'm just messin' with you!" 

Before being spotted, Walt had overheard the trio talking about "Desoto," whom Walt later learned was the new CEO of the nursing home's parent company, Celestial Healthcare. The remarks had hardly been complimentary.

Rounding the bend on the asphalt road that encircled Sycamore Glen, Walt heard the roar of an approaching car's engine. The noise quickly grew louder. Desperately Walt veered onto the grass, nearly tipping over as a dark sedan with tinted windows flew past him. The headlights remained off as the mysterious vehicle raced to the end of the small road and made a sharp left onto George Washington Lane, then sped out of sight. Petrified, Walt remained where he was for 10 minutes, his heart pounding. Finally regaining his composure, he maneuvered back onto the road, put his chair into high gear, and returned to the front entrance just before the doors locked.

Walt was shaken, but he had no intention of remaining passive. Entering the first floor lounge, he wheeled up to one of the two computers reserved for residents' use and typed in the search terms "Celestial Healthcare Desoto." His manual dexterity wasn't good, and with alternating index fingers he delicately poked the keyboard, striking one character at a time. Nervously he checked to verify that he was alone. It was 7:55 p.m. The lounge closed in 35 minutes.

Walt’s search returned a variety of online articles, the first of which began "Nelson Desoto, CPA, named new CEO of Celestial Healthcare." A salary of $275,000, plus incentives. 

"What incentives?" Walt inadvertently blurted. Then he read some more. That would explain a lot, he thought. The driver of the rogue vehicle could easily have struck Walt, but that would have been too messy. Broken headlights. Dents and scratches. Blood. The intention had been to frighten him, perhaps to death. Who would be suspicious if a 79 year-old man in a nursing home died of a heart attack? Or an 87 year-old man in a nursing home? Or a 94 year-old woman? Maybe he was just being paranoid.

Someone was coming. In his haste to exit before being discovered, Walt forgot to log off of the PC. In the hallway he had another near collision, this time with Nancy. She was surprisingly good-natured about the whole thing. Then Walt spilled the beans.

Nancy's patronizing response infuriated Walt. Surely there had been no intent to harm him; a lot of people drove too fast, and since the driver had obviously forgotten to turn on the headlights, he or she probably hadn't even seen Walt. Most likely one of the staff members had been in a hurry to get home from work. Also, she countered, Walt had been instructed to confine himself to the front of the building, and not to venture out after dark.

"That’s a load of crap!" Walt shouted. Then he demanded that she give him the names of the employees on duty that night.

Now it was Nancy's turn to be noncompliant. She didn't have to give him anything, and if he persisted she would not only revoke his outdoor privileges, but she would have him restrained and if necessary, sedated. 

Walt backed down. For now. This wasn't over.

The next two days were quiet ones at Sycamore Glen. None of the staff made any mention of Walt’s outburst, and even Nancy passed him in the hallway and nodded politely. Nevertheless, he had spoken discreetly with Harry the morning after his ordeal, instructing him to relay the incident to Molly. When Harry downplayed the speeding car episode, Walt reminded him that he had been the target of an “assassination attempt” before, when Zacchaeus Newton, who had killed George “Number Five” Pendleton, had realized that Walt was on to him. Harry acknowledged this.

“But how many times does that happen, Dad?”

“Enough,” Walt replied, hanging up the receiver.

By the end of the week, two more residents had succumbed to the Reaper’s scythe: 89-year old Philomena Barnes and 82 year-old Harvey Ippolito. While he wasn’t in the habit of keeping track of Sycamore Glen’s decedents, four in just over a week seemed like a lot to Walt. He had a thought, one which he admitted to himself may have been completely off base, but merited investigation. Returning to the lounge containing the pair of PCs, Walt settled himself in front of a monitor and searched the local obituaries. With the exception of Don, the other three residents who had recently passed away were to be cremated. In fact, the cantankerous Mrs. Cooper had already been incinerated. Unpleasant assumptions and dangerous theories began swirling in Walt’s head. But how could he prove anything? 

For all of his mental acuity, Walt was occasionally absent-minded. Harry always warned him that this fault would be his undoing. As Walt left the first floor lounge, he again neglected to log off of the computer.

Walt was alone with his prodigious Sherlock Holmes book early that evening, most of the other residents, including Medford, having repaired to the Community Room upstairs for the weekly movie. Walt had seen The Treasure of the Sierra Madre before, and if he were to watch the film again, he would prefer to do so without the accompanying snoring from half of the audience. The slumbering seniors were in no way a reflection of Humphrey Bogart’s acting skills; most couldn’t even stay awake for a half hour news broadcast.

Perhaps Sir Arthur Conan Doyle deserved posthumous credit for the epiphany which descended on Walt while he was reading “The Adventure of the Speckled Band.” One brief passage, had Walt been able to stand, would have leveled him.

“When a doctor goes wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.”

Walt shut the book. “Or she,” he said.


The time was 6:00 p.m. Walt guessed that he had 30 minutes before the movie let out. Wheeling swiftly and silently into the hall, he made his way to the office of Dr. Medea Kouros, situated behind the nurses’ station in between the east and west wings of the first floor. He paused in front of the door, not quite certain how to proceed. Finally he decided that if he were caught, he would simply plead a “senior moment,” babbling something about getting lost and thinking that this was his room. Then Walt noticed the light coming from under the door. And that the door was not only unlocked, it was ajar.

The whole thing felt like a trap. Awkwardly Walt rapped softly on the door. When no one answered, he pushed it open and entered, maneuvering with some difficulty to the opposite side of the large oaken desk in the center. Sliding open the middle drawer, Walt saw a clipboard with a list of five patients’ names, four of which had red check marks next to them: Don D'Alonzo, Ida Cooper, Philomena Barnes and Harvey Ippolito. The fifth name, Janice Greene, he didn’t recognize.

Tucking the incriminating clipboard under his right arm, Walt made for the exit. He would return to his room, call 911, and explain the whole situation. Desoto got “incentives” all right, mainly the more profit On Your Feet! made, the more he made. He wouldn’t deign to soil his hands with murder, preferring to delegate that to someone else. Even if the police thought that Walt was crazy, the attention would at least cause the killer to stop . . . for a while.

Walt made it back to his room, his heart racing like that of a spent runner. He glanced at the sinister list once more, reading the names again. A clicking sound caught his attention, followed by a familiar voice. He realized now that the voice was the one that he had heard talking to Betty Carver on the day that Don died.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The intonation was both free of rancor and sarcasm. 

Walt regarded the pretty doctor sternly. “You won’t get away with this,” he told her.

Medea Kouros slipped a delicate hand into the right pocket of her white lab coat and withdrew a syringe. She approached Walt slowly.

“I was actually going to lay off for a few months,” she confessed. “and let attrition handle the rest. We generally have a 10 percent turnover every year. Nelson would like 25 percent.”

Walt moved his wheelchair backwards, bumping into the wall. Dr. Kouros laughed, and took a step closer.

“You know, Walt,” she told him. “you really should remember to log off the computer when you finish. I guess it’s a moot point now.”

Walt unleashed on her. The white towel on the floor was the first clue. That had been on Monday; Tuesday was laundry day. The “good doctor,” Walt submitted, threw a white towel over her head, switched off Don’s light, and literally scared him to death. But she heard someone coming, and had to leave in a hurry, hence the stray towel.

Dr. Kouros drew closer, brandishing the syringe. “In a few minutes, you can ask Don yourself,” she replied.

“What are you going to do?” Walt asked her.

“Give you a shot of insulin,” she answered. “Enough to cause you to die of insulin shock. Of course, I’ll put heart attack on your death certificate. Or maybe stroke.”

Walt was sweating. “What about your Hippocratic Oath?” 

She laughed again. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Walt,” she said. “Just a little prick, and you’ll fall into a . . .

“Owwww! God damn it! You little bastard! Son of a bitch! Mother-” the doctor shrieked as Walt rammed his motorized chair full speed into her shapely shins. 

Reeling with pain, Dr. Kouros struggled to remain on her feet. In the meantime, Walt had retreated to his original position, prepared to launch a second attack. Eyes burning with rage, the doctor lifted the deadly syringe above her head like a dagger and with a yell, lunged. Walt’s reflexes were not as fast. He had just grabbed the joystick on his chair when the frenzied physician was nearly on top of him.

Suddenly Medea Kouros was jerked back violently as a pair of muscular arms seized her from behind. Writhing and screaming like a feral cat, she tried in vain to free herself from the unseen assailant’s grip.

“Medford, look out!” Walt shouted, noticing the syringe still in the doctor’s hand. Medford, who had dropped his crutch in order to restrain the rabid Dr. Kouros, was in obvious distress. If his struggling quarry were to land a sharp kick to his swollen knee with one of her heels, he would certainly lose his grip.

Hearing the commotion, Mort Cogswell, one of the custodians, rushed in, positioning himself in between Dr. Kouros and Walt. Assessing the situation quickly, he delivered a well-aimed punch to the pretty face. Dr. Kouros gasped once and slid to the floor.

Medford breathed a sigh of relief. Walt thought that he himself actually was going to have a heart attack or a stroke, but didn’t. Mort looked at the pair expectantly.

“Don’t everybody thank me at once,” he said.

Although he likely would have taken no interest in watching proverbial paint dry, Walt observed with something akin to delight as the same crew of workmen who had just weeks ago installed the hated wallpaper diligently removed it. Still, he felt that this tedious task was unfair to the workers, and told Harry and Molly so.

“I’ll tell you what’s really unfair,” Harry responded. “That Medea Kouros got only 20 years because she agreed to testify against Nelson Desoto, while he’s looking at the death penalty. Not that I’m defending him.”

Walt nodded. “Yeah, that is kind of unfair.” 

Prosecuting Desoto and his “assistant” for the deaths of Don Miller and Ida Cooper would have been difficult, as Don had technically died of natural causes and Ida’s remains had been reduced to ashes. But autopsies of Philomena Barnes and Harvey Ippolito revealed incriminating needle marks and large quantities of insulin. As a result of all the bad publicity surrounding Desoto’s scheme, Sycamore Glen was to remain Sycamore Glen - a home for the elderly and infirm.

“But I wouldn’t worry about Dr. Kouros, Dad,” Harry told his father, who didn’t appear the least bit worried. “You’ll almost certainly be dead by the time she gets out.”

“Harry!” his sister said. 

“Sorry,” Harry told his younger sibling. “Anyway, Sis, you didn’t fly 3,000 miles to watch wallpaper being scraped off. Let’s take Dad to Penny’s Diner. In fact, why don’t we ask Medford and Mort to join us?” There were no objections.

“By the way, Molly,” Walt said. “You told me that you had a book that I would find interesting. Did you bring it?”

Molly blushed. “No, Dad. I’m sorry. I forgot. But I’ll try and pick up a copy of it while I’m in town.”

Telling her father and brother to wait for her in the lobby for a few minutes while she “took care of some business,” Molly Regent discreetly deposited Dr. Death: Dr. Jack Kevorkian’s RX: Death in the waste basket of the ladies’ room.