SEPTEMBER 18, 2023 – Off to war we went. Except we didn’t. None of us—least of all Cliff—could believe how quickly our determined strategy against UB would be upended.
The day following our emergency family council, Mother was already playing the role of saboteur and as usual against her self-interest. While talking with Dad over the phone after the latest call from Cliff, I relayed information about a particularly abhorrent development: the downstairs bathroom at 42 Baghdad Street was now so bad (Cliff had used the word “feces”), a tough guy like the Master of Horror himself couldn’t stand to pee in the toilet. Disgusted, Dad must’ve told Mother, who called me a short while later.
When I answered, she said, “Plumber.” That was all; no “Hi,” no “Hello,” just the word “plumber.”
“Huh?”
“Think about it, Eric,” she said, again uttering the word, “plumber.”
“Mother,” I said impatiently, “don’t talk in riddles. Just tell me what you mean.”
“Uncle Bruce’s dirty bathroom was probably due to a plugged toilet, and I’m sure he’s just had trouble finding a reliable plumber.”[1]
“That’s ridiculous, Mother.” I’d had enough. “You’ve got to quit covering for Uncle Bruce,” I said uncharitably and intentionally so.
“You’ve got have more understanding.”
She had a point: in many ways, UB and Mother herself were far beyond my understanding.
My very next call was to the Bergen County Department of Human Services. After telling a highly condensed version of my story several times to several people, I got a hold of a woman in the watchdog division whose purview was vulnerable seniors. She seemed alert, caring, experienced, and knowledgeable. She was also very candid.
In response to the background I imparted about UB, she recounted some examples of the more egregious cases in which the concerned family of an allegedly vulnerable senior had failed in its bid to for a guardianship. One case involved a retired CEO of a Fortune 500 company who’d sent $8 million to a scam artist in Nigeria. The FBI and even the CIA, the woman told me, had been investigating the matter too, but no one, no law, no process could halt the outflow of funds, let alone recover them. Only the victim’s death ended the nonsense. My conversation with the social worker ended with very little promise for a guardianship of UB.
Meanwhile, Cliff tried to recall the Merry Maids back into service. Because the condition of the house had become so intolerable, Cliff could no longer wait for the guardianship process to get underway. He had retained the Merry Maids initially, then put them on retainer after UB had signed our “contract” back in March promising to behave himself. Of course, he’d broken the contract in half the time it had taken us to craft and present it: he trashed out the house at such an accelerated rate the Merry Maids couldn’t keep pace and quit. Now, six months later, the garbage buildup was so critical, Cliff begged and bribed them to return. They did—for all of five minutes before walking off the job for keeps.
Cliff then conscripted “a Polish cleaning lady” whom his mother knew. At first this draftee too protested, until in desperation Cliff coughed up more of the universal currency of motivation. In the course of the next six hours, she worked a miracle. But in the twisted plot of our epic Road Runner tale, the miracle backfired with spectacular magnificence.
When at 5:00 local time Cliff left his office to check on progress by the “polish (PAH-lish) lady,” as we would thenceforth refer to her, he was stunned by the transformation . . . and the unexpected presence of a stranger whose socks were being charmed right off by none other than the Road Runner himself.
And who might the woman be? The very Bergen County social worker to whom I’d appealed a few hours before. Based on my disclosures but on her own initiative, she had decided to investigate the scene at 42 Baghdad Street. The Mozartian perfection of her timing juxtaposed to the polish lady’s miracle work was nothing short of devastating.
“Can we step outside . . .” she said to Cliff, “. . . so we can talk?” He complied, shocked by the combination of the polish lady’s miraculous work and the social worker’s presence.
“I don’t see that things are that bad,” she said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Cliff, as he shifted his weight from a particularly soft, rotten part of the old wheelchair ramp outside.
“The house isn’t so horrible,” she said. “and he seems to be in command of his faculties.”
Their conversation migrated slowly out of the back yard, past UB’s garden jungle to the sidewalk along Lincoln Avenue until they stood in front of 50 Lincoln, the large house next door to 42 and which, adding to our dilemma, UB owned outright, free and clear of Mother’s inheritance. At any time, he could use that property as leverage against us and sell it off separately, thus diminishing significantly the market value of the surrounding parcels owned by the family LLC[2] (the warehouse parcels) and 42 Lincoln, to which Mother’s inheritance applied. The ever vigilant tenant of 50 Lincoln, Grandpa’s former secretary who’d retired in 1958 and was now 103, appeared on the front veranda and called out to Cliff.
“Yes?” Cliff said quizzically, knowing Emily wasn’t imparting a friendly greeting.
“The sidewalk near where you’re standing needs repair,” said Emily.
Already roundly defeated by ambush, Cliff surrendered again. “I’ll get to it right away,” he said to placate Emily. As the ancient woman stepped back inside, the social worker told the Master of Horror that she needed to be on her way.
“Just curious,” I said to Cliff after the detailed description of his defeat, “but when’s the last time anyone besides Emily has been inside that house?”
“You kiddin’ me? 1950,” he said with a laugh. But his mood quickly darkened as his frustration returned. “After that whole fiasco with the social worker,” he continued, “I gave Uncle Bruce a 40-minute speech . . . no, not a speech but 40 minutes of screaming. I gave him a big enough piece of my mind to blacken both his eyes for a month. I was so furious at him I was shaking. When I was done, I stormed out and slammed the door behind me.
“But it must’ve had some effect,” Cliff said, ever hopefully.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Before I reached the gate he opened the door, followed me out and said, ‘Maybe you’d like something to eat.’”
“Jeezus,” I said.
“You can’t make this stuff up. It’s the world according to Bruce.”
The next morning the social worker called me to tell me about her visit with UB. “I think you need to watch out for Cliff,” she said. “He might be after your uncle’s money. I’ve seen it before—someone who tries to get very close, only to take advantage of the situation.”
I wanted to throw my phone at the wall. As I was about to crank up to do just that—with the social worker still on the other end—a funny scene popped into my thoughts. I imagined Cliff in the room with me saying, Well, Cliff, right now the problem and the social worker are in New Jersey, but I’m not. To borrow—and twist—your own phrase, “This isn’t. . . New Jersey,” so I’m gonna be Minnesota nice . . .
“Thanks,” I said to the social worker. “I’ll take that under advisement. And thanks for your time and concern. I really do appreciate it.”
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] For years UB blamed the dilapidated state of the properties (to the extent he would even acknowledge their sorry condition) on the difficulty in finding “reliable help.” The real reason was UB was too cheap to hire competent help and too penurious to undertake preventative maintenance. Mother was all too susceptible to his authoritative-sounding excuses and repeated them without question.
[2] Including Mother’s membership interest, which, along with UB’s constituted a majority.
