Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 18

March 15, 2019 Friday

Friday, supermarkets were packed as people prepared for the weekend. Bainbridge rolled a cart along the aisle at Harris Teeter. He’d meant to shop yesterday but a clogged pipe under the sink in his small house at Pitchfork Farm took up much of the day.

Drew still employed the male nurse part-time which fortunately gave Bainbridge the time to run back and forth to the hardware store then take over for the nurse until his uncle returned from work.

Today, however, he was on duty. Pulling the nurse back to three and a half days already saved the Taylors seven hundred fifty dollars a week. Registered nurses and nurse practitioners proved very expensive. While Morris didn’t need a nurse practitioner he did need a nurse. Given his size, male muscle power came in handy. Also, getting Morris’s drugs from the doctor’s office or the pharmacy was easier with a nurse.

Morris endured a monthly appointment to get a new script, which then was carried to the pharmacy. The time this took was irritating if not exhausting.

So Bainbridge had to take his father to the supermarket. The son rolled the cart while he told his father what to put into it. So far Morris was cooperative, cheerful even, and didn’t run the cart into anyone else.

“Crackers.” Bainbridge pointed to a package on the shelf.

“I don’t like that kind.”

“Grab what you do like.”

Morris snagged a box of Triscuits.

They rolled on. Bainbridge wanted to get out of there, but then so did everyone else.

They reached the bread section, some shelves not high, in front of cold cases filled with made sandwiches, sushi, ready-to-eat things.

Morris grabbed a sandwich, starting to unwrap it.

“Dad, you can’t do that. Wait until we get home.”

“I’m hungry.”

Bainbridge walked in front of the cart, took the sandwich from his father, started to rewrap it.

Morris, furious, grabbed a long loaf of French bread, hitting his son over the head. The bread broke in half.

“Gimme my sandwich,” the older man yelled.

Looking around, Bainbridge picked up the bread, tried to guard the cart as his father kept reaching for his sandwich. He got into line but Morris attacked the cart then attacked him.

People in front of them in line huddled up. No one came behind. The lady behind the register picked up the phone.

Within a minute, two men appeared to handle the situation.

Morris swung at them. Fortunately, they ducked.

“He’s got dementia,” Bainbridge said louder than he’d intended.

“Shut up. You shut up,” Morris hollered.

“I’ll get him out.” Bainbridge slipped behind his father, swinging at the two supermarket employees, and as he did so Morris turned, hitting him in the face.

Bainbridge held up his arm to protect his face but Morris, enraged, pounded on him.

Exasperated, the young man let fly a right cross, catching Morris on the chin. He wobbled, mouth bleeding, hanging on to the cart, which now rolled back in the line.

That fast the two men grabbed Morris’s arms, pinning him as they hustled him to the store exit.

Bainbridge reached in his pocket for cash as a policeman hurried through the door.

“He’s got dementia and lost his temper,” Bainbridge tried to explain.

“Come on, buddy.” The cop pulled Morris’s arm up behind him, propelling him out into the parking lot.

Bainbridge managed to pull out more bills, stuffing them in the employees’ back pockets.

“I’m not crazy. Let me go,” Morris hollered.

“Officer, if you help me get him to the car I can take him home.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m his son.”

“Is this your son?” the cop asked Morris.

“I never saw that bastard in my life.”

When Drew reached the station both father and son languished in adjoining cells. Of course, Bainbridge had a record for possession of drugs. Morris simply screamed bloody murder in the next cell.

Drew, overwhelmed, called his personal lawyer, who came down, filled out paperwork. Bainbridge was released to his uncle. At first they weren’t sure what to do with Morris, who by now demonstrated to all and sundry that he suffered from senile dementia and was in a rage, which is not uncommon. Not every dementia patient loses their temper. But enough do that it is one of the things a medical person or a law enforcement officer would perceive.

“I can take him home.” Drew and Edward, his lawyer, stood together in front of the discharging officer.

“If he becomes violent again, I don’t see how you can,” the officer replied. “I can’t release him to you.”

“He can’t stay here. He’s sick,” Drew pleaded.

Edward, calm, placed paperwork in front of the policeman. “This is the name and number of Morris’s doctor. Would you release him to the doctor, who would place him under observation for a night?”

Reading the paperwork, the officer agreed, and called Dr. Frank Gericke.

By the time Drew and Bainbridge got back to the farm it was almost ten o’clock.

Bainbridge disappeared into the bathroom, emerging with a washcloth, wet, at his split lip.

“Dammit, this will cost.” Drew sagged in his chair. “What in the hell did you think you were doing taking him to the supermarket?”

“He seemed fine. How was I to know he would go off?”

“Sit down,” Drew commanded. “What set him off?”

“He picked a sandwich out of the case and started eating it. I told him to put it in the cart, he could eat it when we left the store. That was all it took.”

Drew rubbed his hand over his eyes. “You can’t cross him.”

“I didn’t think I was. I was trying to get out of the store without food all over him or on the floor.”

“We’ll pick him up tomorrow. Maybe Dr. Gericke can prescribe something to keep him calm.”

“That can’t be too difficult, but Uncle Drew, meds wear off. How will we get more into him?”

“He’s been pretty good about swallowing pills.”

“But what if he isn’t? Do you hold his mouth open and I cram them down his throat?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t think a nurse will be any better at it.”

“I don’t either.”

As uncle and nephew worried, news about the uproar in Harris Teeter spread. The place had been packed and this was gossip too good to be true.

Eventually Sister heard about it from Betty, who had heard about it from Freddie Thomas, whose best friend, Karen Sorenson, had been in the store with her mother.

Sister did not think this was any of her business. On the other hand, she was glad Betty alerted her so no one would run up to her in public or try to bag her after a foxhunt. This way she could prepare her response, which simply was, “This is a terrible problem and I hope Drew and Bainbridge can see to Morris’s safety and everyone else’s.”

She resisted the urge to call Gray, over at Old Lorillard with his brother tonight. However, she thought a call to Walter Lungrun might not be out of order.

Once on the phone, he told her he had heard of it about fifteen minutes ago from Ben Sidel, who would make sure neither Drew nor Bainbridge nor Morris were prosecuted. As far as the sheriff was concerned, it was a medical issue and should be handled as such.

“Good man,” Sister said. “Ben.”

“He is. However, there is no way back from dementia.”

“Does that mean Morris will be increasingly violent?”

“Not necessarily. People with these conditions reach plateaus and can remain there for some time. As to episodes of violence or terror, they’re very difficult to predict. Frank Gericke was called down to the station, Ben told me, so I called him. This is his specialty and right now Morris is at UVA University Hospital for observation. He can’t get out. Drew will need to pick him up in the morning if Frank thinks he’s stabilized.”

“I see. Walter, is it time to put him away?”

“You know, that really is a medical and family decision. But Frank did tell me Drew has power of attorney, thank God…Morris gave it to him a year ago…or this kind of thing could drag through the courts, in and out of hospitals. There isn’t really a safety net.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“For one thing, Sister, a family can’t exactly hide someone with dementia but they can keep them at hand. Would it be easier to put them away? I think so, but emotionally many people can’t.”

“Or won’t.” She thought a moment. “I would assume that in some cases there is financial gain.”

“Well, again that depends on the circumstances, but the family or a trustee does have control over the patient’s worldly goods.”

“People fight over the damndest things, like a car, a large silver bowl. There is no fight as bad as a family fight.”

He replied, “True. Although it doesn’t appear this is a family fight; I mean, apart from fisticuffs in Harris Teeter.”

“Let’s hope so.”