Hattie May Hatfield pulled her gray ladies box coat tightly about her frail form. It wasn’t that she was cold, just defensive. She was seventy-five, with nearly gray hair that she wore in a flipped bob style that she had maintained since the sixties.

Her husband of over forty years, a former police detective, had passed. So had most of her dear friends. She had two daughters who lived out of state with their own families and lives. In her younger years, Hattie had been an author. Failing eyesight had slowly and steadily robbed her of that pleasure.  

The slight woman weighed all of a hundred pounds, but was still curvy for her age, and wore contacts, mainly because she had grown tired of constantly searching for her glasses. Hattie had been in the Berkshire Elderly Center for almost a week. Seems longer. The home housed two-hundred residents, most in their seventies and eighties.

The Berkshire wasn’t a terrible place. She found the food bearable and the common areas were always clean. Plus, the private bedrooms were much larger than she expected, each having their own restroom. That’s always a plus in the constipated world of the elderly.

No, her issue was with the people in the facility. None of them had proved too friendly. They all watched her like they half expected her to attack or something. Yeah, they were wary. That was a good word for them.

Hattie was sitting in the reading room with a good example of unfriendly sitting at the table across from her reading a book titled ‘Crimes of Sodden House’. He was an elderly man pushing ninety. She called him Grumpy Gus, but had no idea what his real name was. 

That was because he never answered anyone with more than a grunt, followed by a smirk. The smirk was an easy transformation from the perpetual scowl that had set up permanent residency on his mug. Hattie had even caught him gifting others a couple of snarls in the past week. Probably best to keep a wide berth from that one.

At a different table to the left of Grumpy Gus was a nice looking smaller fella named Art. He was closer to Hattie’s age and looked clean-cut in his docker pants and light-blue polo shirt. She knew his name because she had heard others call him that. Her name for the man was Art Antica.

Hattie had dubbed him this because he was cold. On two occasions, Hattie had tried to engage Art Antica in conversation. Each time he had been terse, answering her questions with one word responses. He couldn’t seem to be bothered. She hadn’t tried a third time.

She sat down ‘Crooked House’ unable to focus. Not that she didn’t love Agatha Christie, but she was just too disturbed. Hattie didn’t feel like she belonged in this place. An unexpected feeling came upon her. I miss my home. 

Her intentions when her eldest daughter, Sarah, dropped her off was to keep an open mind. She had been very lonely in her big old house, especially since her husband Paul had died eight years ago. Now that her house was gone, along with her Cadillac Brougham, she would just have to make the best of it. 

Well, the car I can do without. She had hit two parked cars in the month before she had finally decided to permanently park it three months ago. Her eyesight just wasn’t what it used to be. But the house was a different story altogether. 

It had been a stunning two-story, four bedroom, three bath white Colonial style that was located in a middle-class neighborhood close to downtown. It even had two magnificent columns at the front that ran to the roof, giving it an air of opulence. 

Her and Paul had lived there for over forty years and had raised both of their  daughters there. The memories inside those walls were palpable. But now someone else was making new memories there. It had sold for a pretty penny. 

Recently, sitting inside of the big house with its many closed off rooms had been so lonely. Yet, now that she was surrounded by numerous people her own age, the feeling of emptiness was still with her, hanging about her like a bad odor.

The center’s director, a pencil-pusher named Harold Chapman, had spent the entire first day of ‘indoctrination’ speaking with Sarah. He had never said even one word to Hattie, which was fine by her. The man had the personality of a dead fish. 

Hattie had worn all black that day, right down to her formal shiny church shoes. She looked like a woman in mourning, and had taken subtle pleasure in entering the Berkshire Center that way. It was her way of letting go of her past. The statement was lost on Chapman and Sarah, or at the very least, they did not acknowledge her gloomy attire. 

One lady had recently talked to her. She wore a blonde beehive hairdo and large silver bifocals. She wore an out of style, faded pink floral print doll collar dress Her name was Katherine Beck. ‘Had’ talked to her was a great description for what had occurred.

The woman had sat down at Hattie’s dining table and talked for thirty minutes straight. The rapid talker never let Hattie get in even a single word. Then she said “good chat” and left. In and out like a tornado of babble. That earned her the name Chatty Cathy.

Hattie May Hatfield pulled her gray box coat even tighter around her body. No, it certainly was not cold in the center. She just felt closed up as she hadn’t been able to open up to anyone. The standoffish residents were just too wary. 

Nope, so far I haven’t met a single person I could possibly befriend. Hopefully my second week will go better. Yes, I must remain positive. I will say that back in my day, people were much more friendly.

CHARACTERS:

Hattie May Hatfield-New resident who had made her living as an author

Paul Hatfield-Hattie's deceased police detective husband

Sarah Hatfield-Hattie's oldest daughter

Harold Chapman-Pencil pushing Berkshire Director

Katherinne Beck-Chatty Kathy, a resident who talks constantly

Art Antica-A cold, but cute resident

Grumpy Gus-A cranky, very old resident