Mrs. Wexler's Things

“Things are coming back,” Mrs. Wexler said.

At some point, Dorothea Wexler might have suggested a goose had walked over my grave. For me, it’s always something dank and slippery circling for the kill or at least a succulent chunk.  

Dorothea Wexler at 94 was nearly as petite and and pixie-ish as 80-year-old Dorothea Wexler. But for me there’d been a 14-year void between the two, from that first Sunday bulletin “Aftercare” listing through a displaced hip, a Monday Silver Alert resolved by Tuesday morning drive-time, and periodic prayer card solicitations for Dorothea at St. Mark’s, the Ecumena Oncology Ward, the assisted care on McCaslan where the tracks normally end. Sarah’d told me Doug Wexler had pulled his mom from McCaslan after COVID had swept the premises. After a harrowing seven months, Alzheimer’s care appeared the next and probably final port of call.

If things indeed were coming back, it was an implausible remission or a miracle. “I’m sorry?”

“I was so angry when he broke it – Mother’d brought it over from Germany, and I promised to pass it on to Nina when she started her own family. Walt tanned his hide but good, which now seems regrettable. After all, he was only seven, and it WAS an accident.” Her glacially blue eyes misted. “I wish I could tell Douglas it’s back, it’s all right now, not to worry. He was a sensitive boy, and I could tell he felt badly.”

I discreetly scanned the social hall. Doug Wexler was doing the same, and we locked eyes. His bulky frame relaxed, and he nodded gratefully as he excused himself from what looked to be a Cubbies huddle.

“You said ‘things’…” I began despite myself.

“Mom?” Doug was fleeter of feet than I’d remembered. Mrs. Wexler flared with impatience.

“Walt, how many times have I asked you not to interrupt?”

Doug shrugged sadly, and I did a thing with my face. “Hope she wasn’t bothering you.”

“It’s just really nice to see her back.”

“Well.” As if I shouldn’t expect it to be a regular coffee date. “Great to see you, too. Missed you guys during, you know...”

We all knew – this was our second week back from iPad religion.

“I think we better get going,” Doug cooed, patting his mother’s arm. “Mari’s making a roast, like you like. Say bye to Mr. Dodge now.”

Mrs. Wexler’s head turned, and she nodded warily before moving off on Doug’s arm. I was already new data.

It wasn’t until I pitched the dregs of my tepid church coffee that I spotted the watch. “You can take it this afternoon while I’m at Walmart,” Sarah instructed me as we pulled into the drive. “I don’t want to talk to the bastard.” 

**

The bastard lived deep into the east side, well removed from the Really Old Money in the pre-boom Jurassic fringe west and the Newest Money east of the Beltway where homemade lakes and gated walking trails are the post-bust perks in a town where Kohl’s is the Macy’s.

Doug was Perennial Money – his dad Walter had launched Wexler Tool and Die in 1952, and Doug took the reins in 2000, removing “Tool and Die” from the plant so no one might stumble in seeking whalebone corsets. While updating logos and fabrication equipment, the innovative bastard also updated spouses at the age when sudden things happen. Doug moved up seven or eight pews with Sunday roast Mari, who ran a wine and pottery-making studio downtown. The first shift – Cathy and six-year-old Zach – had the cheap seats behind us. Mari seemed pleasant enough, but every pot has its lid and every bastard in Sarah’s view must have his, well, reason it out.

It had gotten mean, and Zach ping-ponged between the Wexler compound and Cathy’s West Side digs in fact about four blocks from Us Truly. Cathy had regained controlling custody when Dorothea rejoined Doug’s household, but 15-year-old Giselle maintained strong retail and school ties in the Deep East.

“Thank God,” Doug breathed. He examined the tarnished, jeweled band and the dime-sized face, locked in at 7:23. “Mom would never have let it go. She’s lost so much weight, probably fell off her wrist. C’mon.”

I’d been hoping for a DoorDash, but he led me toward a pair of curtained French doors. “I think somehow she knows what’s transpiring,” Doug sighed. “I hate to do it, but things have been impossible. Mari’s basically Mom’s caretaker during the day, and it’s taking its toll. Giselle’s thrown herself into anything that gets her out of the house – tennis, working at the county museum, speech meets. Then there’s Zach – he’s been having trouble ever since his mom got full custody. Sorry, not your circus.” He tapped lightly on the glass.

Mrs. Wexler was in a wing chair next to a TV table stocked with Ritz crackers and iced tea, perusing a People. The bed next to her was turned down but neat. A tall shelf across the room, a remnant of Doug’s former home office, was loaded with Tom Clancy, Lee Child, David Baldacci, some World War II and sports stuff, while knick-knacks occupied the highest shelf as a concession to the new tenant.

“Mom, guess what turned up at church,” Doug grinned, handing her the dead watch.

Mrs. Wexler’s fingers closed around the valueless, priceless timepiece. “They don’t always come back perfect.” she related. Dorothea Wexler then fixed abruptly on me, and an eel grazed my chest. “Is this the one? Walt knew how to deal with thieves.”

Doug didn’t bother, instead kissing her forehead and ushering me out. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Not at all,” I assured him. “You know, she mentioned several things, ah, turning up unexpectedly. Including some old heirloom that…got broken when you were a boy.”

“Some stupid figurine I busted horsing around when I was seven. Porcelain angel, from the '30s. Grandma brought it with her when they got out of Germany before the big shitstorm. Mom’s been doing this a lot, seeing things — her dad’s old pipe, her husband’s coffee mug, that freaking angel...”

I thought about patting Doug on the shoulder, thought better. A teenager sprinted down the stairs, dayglow bag thumping against her side. Doug looked grateful for the diversion.

“Where to this time?” he called with cheerful passive aggression.

Giselle wheeled and produced a smile. “Vikki wants to check out the sale at Old Navy, ok? She’s picking me up.”

“Home before dark, hear?”

Giselle nodded too adamantly and disappeared. That seemed like a great idea, and I left the bastard to his Sunday afternoon.

**

“World’s smallest violin,” Sarah grunted as I finished my tale, hurling towels at the dryer. “I realized I hadn’t seen Cathy Wexler since COVID, so I called her. The bastard’s going after Zach again. He’s in first grade and having some real problems. The teacher’s upset about some drawings -- monsters, demons, this creepy ‘thing’ with Cathy’s face. The bastard’s lawyer thinks they can use it to get joint custody back. You know, they cut him back to weekends because that crazy old woman was hitting Zach.”

“Jeez.” I hunted up a Dasani from the basement fridge, toying with some point about kids of divorce and re-blending. But it had gone mean with Sarah and her ex, too, so I offered her a swig instead.

**

If I’d simply popped in a pod at home or left the watch at the church office, I wouldn’t have wound up in my best polo and khakis listening to canned strings with a few dozen of Doug and Mari Wexler’s closest. And Cathy, who’d sought new BFF Sarah’s comfort at her successor’s funeral. Sarah and I accompanied her through the line like armed backup. Doug held fort with his visiting sister Nina — Giselle was playing Paw Patrol with her brother to the rear of Bachmann/King’s Perennial Money Parlor. Mrs. Wexler was in the front row, flanked by cooing and consoling Church Women.

Mari’s obit had provided little illumination, but her late afternoon discovery crumpled on the Wexler kitchen floor garnered several column-inches and a jump under the front page fold. The jump might not have been necessary had Giselle Wexler not also discovered her grandma gazing at roses and squirrels on the patio glider maybe twenty feet out the gaping back door.

“Dotti thought it was ME at first,” Cathy confided. “She asked what I’D done. Pathetic thing is, I kinda liked Mari. Considering. She never badmouthed me with the kids, and she would have done anything for Dotti. And she’s taken on that petty old woman and Giselle’s teenage shit and god knows what crap Doug dishes out. I’ve got nothing for Doug any more, but I can’t help feeling he’s still trying to sabotage me with Giselle and Zach and that this custody grab is nothing but retaliation for me knowing exactly what he is.”

“Got any idea what may be up with Zach?” I asked. Unlike Sarah, Cathy didn’t seem perturbed.

“I can’t figure it out — he seems to miss his sister more than Doug, but at least SHE pops over a few times a week. He isn’t actually acting out. The teacher’s just this social worker type, and to be fair, these are some pretty ghastly images. I’ve asked if he’s mad or upset because of anything I’ve done, and he insists not. All I can conclude is, Doug’s trying to poison him toward me.”

“The bastard,” Sarah contributed.

“Don’t suppose I could see those drawings?” I asked, averting Sarah’s thorny doom.

“You know I work at St. Mark’s, right? One of the guys in Pediatics said he’d look at them, so they’re in the car.” Cathy paused, checked Giselle now rocking her brother. “You wanna go look?”

**

Curtis only looped me because Mrs. Wexler had reported a watch thief on the premises Sunday and suggested I might be an investigative starting point. Doug set him straight, but Det. Mead thought it all was a royal hoot. But you feed the badger once, and the next Starbuck’s on you…

“Pretty frigging (sic) dark,” Curtis rumbled as he awaited his macchiato and studied the trio of .jpgs I’d taken on the hood of Cathy’s Focus. The first two were run-of-the-mill hell beasts. The third was the stuff of Hell. Cathy was snarling, displaying a mouthful of fangs. Below the neck, the closest I could come was Cthulhu and Kali’s love child. No wonder Teach almost speed-dialed DCFS. “But, c’mon, look at this shit. Your mom’s a monster, aren’t you gonna put her head on the devil or a witch or a werewolf or something? This is some pretty esoteric shit for a six-year-old.”

I shrugged. “Teacher saw him draw them. I don’t know how you verbally coach a kid to create something that horrific.”

“Even a first grader can work a Firestick,” Curtis suggested. “Maybe HULU inspired him. Ah, here we go. Dude,” he addressed the barista, “I LOOK like a Cletus?” 

**

Melanie and Ella came down Saturday for cheeseburgers and an afternoon at the Kid’s Exploratorium next to the downtown history museum. Three hours of interacting later, my lunchtime proteins and carbs had burned on the pyre of grandfatherly engagement, and Melanie laid down the law with a cooldown in the Exploratorium gift shop and the promise of ice cream.

“You have 15 unicorns already,” Melanie said firmly.

“Not like THIS one,” Ella protested, hugging the grinning pink critter. A cavalry of pink and teal and purple unicorns, all with the Exploratorium logo embossed on their saddles, beamed approvingly at Emma’s selection. “Pleeeeease…”

“Unassailable logic,” I suggested, reaching for my VISA. Melanie threw me the Boundaries Look, and I reholstered. It WAS a snazzy unicorn – fine musculature, smooth and seamless, eyes alive and almost three-dimensional.  

But in the end, Ella negotiated a fidget spinner and two scoops, and I contemplated unicorns, angels, and demons.              

**

“Ever heard of Block Universe Theory?” I asked, placing the Walmart bag on Curtis’ desk.

 “Shit. It was right in front of our eyes.”

I sighed. “According to Block Universe Theory, the past, present, and future exist at once. According to its tenets, I might as well eat as much KFC as my heart desires. Now, in growing block universe theory, where past and present coexist, space-time expands in the present, and in the words of Doris Day, the future’s not ours to perceive.”

“Doris what?”

“Gen-X bastard. Dorothea Wexler lives in a finite block universe, locked in a fluctuating past/present where the future’s inconceivable. Seven-year-old Doug and 60-year-old Doug live alternately and simultaneously, and Mrs. Wexler constantly time-shifts from child to wife to mother to an end-stage present.”

“This is a real Drano-drinker.”

“Point being, Mrs. Wexler’s reality has been glitching for years. What if someone decided to nudge her into full-blown dementia or at least the perception thereof? What if things really were coming back? Her treasured figurine, Dad’s pipe, Walter’s mug really did ‘come back’?”

 “But all that shit’s long gone, I assume.”

“Which is the point. Nothing comes back perfect, Mrs. Wexler told me. What happens in the wormhole?”

“Pretty sure that’s beyond the scope of a search warrant,” Curtis opined.

“The answer’s much closer to home. What’s the definition of ‘perfect’ in Mrs. Wexler’s universe? Exactly the way she remembers things. Dorothea can’t recall her own adult son, but all those knicks and cracks and burns are frozen in amber.

“I toyed with the idea Doug found near-duplicates for his mom’s treasures— he has the bucks and a history of gaslighting. But frankly, Dougie’s not that nuanced, and I think he honestly loves his mom. So what’s the alternative?”

Curtis considered. “Mari was an artist, right? SHE made all that stuff to gaslight the old lady, and, what, Doug found out?”

“Don’t think we’re talking about Old World craftsmanship — I think cutting-edge technology’s at work here. Our gaslighter placed the figurine, the pipe, the mug, whatever else, safely out of Dorothea’s reach on a high shelf. Close up, she’d see they were obvious fakes reproduced from family photos or vintage ads or eBay. All it would take are some tech skills and resources to fool a near-sighted, barely ambulatory 94-year-old.”

I tugged Young Abraham Lincoln free from the Walmat bag. “You know NASA’s looking at 3D bioprinters to make astronaut food? Some Italian bioengineer figured out how to ‘print’ plant-based meat. They’re printing car parts, plane parts -- shit, whole cars -- skin and tissue and bones. For less than $1,000, you can make a T-Rex, Honest Abe, or an indigenous hoe blade like the one at the Millington Historical Museum. No need to borrow fragile artifacts or risk theft or liability. You can get Abe here in the museum gift shop or at the Kid’s Exploratorium. Some things, though, you have to do for yourself.”

**

“You weren’t even on the radar screen,” Curtis admitted. “But once we put you there, it wasn’t tough to calculate the 45-minute gap between your BFF Vikki dropping you home from school and you ‘finding’ Mari’s body and your Grandma. That was enough to search your room and laptop.”

Doug Wexler placed his hand on Giselle’s shoulder. She stiffened. The one thing that’s pretty tough to lose these days is data, especially if you’re 15 years old, your universe begins and ends at the existential, and your confidence is infinite.

“Course, all we found were some curious items in your search history, including 3D printer manufacturers, eBay pages for an antique Allwetter Heidelberg pipe and a hand-painted Rosenthal angel figurine, and an Amazon order for high performance 3D print coating, which your VISA statement will back up. Now, the mug, I’m guessing you recreated from a family photo.”  

According to the Millington Historical Museum director, her young intern was industrious, tech-savvy, and frequently furtive. Giselle the bright young go-getter had left the interview room about 10 minutes before.

“You’re too smart to hide your projects at home, and maybe we won’t find them at school either. I’m sure you confirmed the museum’s 3D printer has no internal memory – probably hid or erased the SD card you used. Betcha DIDN’T know the museum bought 500 gigs of cloud storage for printed files. Speeds up reprinting museum merch and tracks staff misuse.”

Giselle in fact could have no way of knowing that fabricated tidbit. Curtis quickly displayed a cramped spreadsheet. “So we got what looks like an angel and a lamb, an old-timey pipe, a coffee mug,” he continued, “some octopus/woman thing…”

I hastily tapped the pause button. It had been hard to watch the first time. It was a brilliant, Machiavellian, utterly batshit plan only a teen might devise. The success of Giselle’s scheme had hinged on exploiting a confused old woman and a six-year-old.

It was quite a juggling act, slipping Mrs Wexler’s lost treasures in and out of her room and Zach’s Boschean figures into his vast store of canine cops, dinosaurs, Hot Wheels, and Happy Meal booty. If Giselle was proud of her plot to drive her grandma into an Alzheimer’s facility, she must have reveled in the ingenuity of imprinting Zach with nightmare images to help bring her brother “home.”

Kids have trouble enough juggling angst and paranoia and shame and expectations. Giselle had to drop a ball at some point. At some point, we may find out which ball Mari intercepted.

“Everybody asked Zach the wrong question — why?” I added as Curtis reluctantly glanced at the bleeding edge of Giselle’s psychotic break. “I simply asked Zach WHAT he’d drawn. He actually thought Monster Mom was awesome.”

**

Haven’t seen Doug Wexler lately, though the latest round of pew cards went somewhat absurdly to the Prairie Alzheimer’s Care Center. Giselle’s universe is pretty small these days: The prosecutor has his yard signs up, and Zach’s sister is going down as an adult. Doug voiced no objections.

The bastard.