AUGUST 31, 2023 – That evening while the Serb was exiting UB’s life for good—or so we led ourselves to believe, despite Jeanette’s prescient skepticism—Cliff with his customary directness urged resolution of the issues that UB had created for himself, for all of us. The master of horror convinced me that now was the time to confront UB with all his Road-Runner back-wheeling since the night of the fire eight and a half years before. After so many years of ignoring [the the danger he was in, as revealed to Cliff on the night of the fire] and the sorry circumstances of UB’s living conditions, we needed to reset the ground rules. I thought of it as a voluntary, quasi-guardianship designed by Cliff and me with daily supervision by Cliff.
After much discussion, Cliff proposed that we present UB with a contract, a written agreement by which he would [avoid danger] and change his living habits. “He’s always saying, ‘If you don’t have it writing, it’s no good,'” Cliff reminded me. In retrospect, our naivete was as extreme as our earnestness. I followed Cliff into his home computer room to engage in some serious word-smithing. I worked the keyboard, but Cliff had very definite opinions about how the “contract” should read. For being a “do-er,” a man of action, not a writer or someone who spends most of his day working the written word, as I do, Cliff impressed me with his command of the language. It was as good or better than that of a good many lawyers I knew.
Jeanette got into the act as well, and as Cliff dictated over my right shoulder, Jeanette gave me her feedback over my left shoulder. At close to midnight, I hit the print button. The “contract” read as follows:
February 8, 2006
Dear Uncle Bruce:
After we saw you on Tuesday afternoon, we went to the house to check on the cat and to scope out the options for your home recovery. What we found was appalling. If we did not love you and care about you, we would have walked straight out of the house and straight out of your life. Forever. However, we do love you and care about you. That is why we are going to help you in every way. To address your immediate every-day needs (e.g. meals, bathing, physical therapy, and medication) during your recovery, we have arranged for home health care. Cliff will monitor this service daily.
The following are non-negotiable:
- We hired “Merry Maids” cleaning service to clean up and disinfect the entire house, especially the bathrooms, cat room, and kitchen. In addition, we have arranged for a cleaning person once a week to maintain a clean living environment so that you may reside at 42 Lincoln for as long as you wish. Keeping the house clean and habitable is a necessity.
- The pornography is gone and will stay gone forever.
- Alex is going back to London voluntarily. He has expressed to us a desire to get on with his life and to avoid all further contact with you. He cannot allow you to interfere or even threaten to interfere with any of his business or personal affairs. You must not have any further contact with him. Uncle Bruce: your obsession with him is out of control. You need help. We will do all in our power to ensure that you get it. You must help us keep this a private matter.
- Eric will be returning to New Jersey soon to address these and other issues.
Caringly and Respectfully,
Eric and Cliff
* * *
Over breakfast the next morning, Cliff and I discussed how we would actually present the “contract” to UB. We agreed that the best time and place would be in the evening, during my final visit at the hospital before I headed back to Minnesota. In the meantime, however, we needed to pin down homecare, house-keeping and “behavior control” in a way that would give the contract some meaning after I left 42 Baghdad Street.
Cliff thought it was paramount that we talk to UB’s primary care physician and disclose all the unmentionables about UB in an effort to get proper treatment for what Cliff and I had diagnosed as an extreme form of bipolar disorder (according to what we could glean from the textbook). After all, it seemed to run in the family, and treatment had provided Mother with a degree of behavioral control. Cliff and I knew that the contract would have little effect if the underlying problem—UB’s brain chemistry—wasn’t addressed properly. We decided the best place to start was with Dr. Palimento,[1] whom Cliff had met several times briefly in the course of ferrying UB to appointments. I had met the doctor the day before at the hospital. Born and reared in the Philippines, Dr. Palimento struck me as being a very caring, competent, and personable physician, with a good sense of humor and excellent communication skills. Most important, he had UB’s long-established trust, notable because UB was a self-appointed know-it-all when it came to medical matters.
We drove straight to the doctor’s clinic in a community a short distance from Rutherford. As a Minnesotan under the Scandinavian influence of my father’s side and, perhaps more critically, as a person aware of HIPPA, I expected resistance and a rash of barriers, though at the hospital the day before we’d found him to be very accommodating. Cliff saw the barriers as a giant sprinter would see the 100-meter hurdles at a track meet for pygmies. “This is New Jersey, Eric,” he laughed when I mentioned HIPPA, “not Minnesota.”
“But HIPPA is a national law,” I said.
“And New Jersey is still New Jersey,” said Cliff, without missing a beat.
When we entered the waiting room of the clinic and found the reception desk temporarily vacated, Cliff led the charge straight down the hallway past examining rooms, knocking on the doors and calling out for Dr. Palimento. At the third door . . . Bingo! The good doctor, who was with another patient, cracked opened the door.
“We’re Mr. Holman’s nephews,” said Cliff. “Remember? We met you yesterday at the hospital. We need a word with you.”
Offering no resistance, Dr. Palimento said he’d meet with us in his office right next door—after he concluded the appointment we’d interrupted. Quite accustomed to Cliff’s chutzpah, I was surprised by Dr. Palimento’s willing accommodation of our unannounced appearance.
“Have a chair, please,” said the doctor a few minutes later after he joined us in his tiny office. “How can I help you?” Cliff first qualified his own relationship to UB, explaining that he, Cliff, was a nephew by way of “family friendship.” He launched into a well-articulated description of UB’s living conditions, obsession with gay pornography, and vulnerability to a “Serbian émigré in London with a big set of personal issues.” It was the quintessential Cliff, a combination of colorful descriptions, incisive assessments, and well-defined plan of action. If the kind doctor was surprised by the theretofore unknown homelife of his patient, he did not show it. Nor did he reveal the slightest distaste or repulsion. I was impressed by the man’s humanity.
After allowing a chuckle, Dr. Palimento said, “Well, I do know that Mr. Holman is happily eccentric, but I did not know any of this additional information. I can see why you’d be concerned. Often older people fall prey to all kinds of con artists, and it’s not good to be living in unsanitary conditions. As far as the symptoms of some psychological conditions or illness are concerned, there’s nothing I can order Mr. Holman to do, but I can suggest that he undergo a psychological or psychiatric evaluation.”
“That would be great,” I said. It was all we could ask for, I knew. In any event, I thought, UB’s primary physician, in whom UB had expressed uncharacteristic confidence, should know the complete patient. Cliff then brought up the whole notion of our presenting the contract, and Dr. Palimento nodded politely, then asked whether it might not upset UB.
“Of course it will,” said Cliff, “but Eric here goes back to Minnesota tomorrow and it looks as though Mr. Holman is going to be released soon from the hospital, and then I’m going to be the one who is primarily responsible for his welfare, and I can’t do that if we don’t lay down the law before Eric goes back, before Mr. Holman gets released.”
“I understand,” said the doctor. “but you don’t want to get him too worked up about things. The man did just undergo open heart surgery.”
“Yes, we realize that,” said Cliff, but we’ve got to deal with these issues before he’s released and what better place to raise them than the cardiac unit of a hospital? I mean, doctor, we absolutely have to raise these issues, whether they’re going to upset Mr. Holman or not. And if he’s going to be upset and it’s hard on his heart, wouldn’t it be best to have all the doctors and nurses and equipment of a cardiac unit right there on hand in case he needs them?”
“You’ve got a point there,” said the doctor. Leave it to Cliff, I thought, the man of action and the man of practical persuasion.
With that, Cliff rose from his chair. “Look, doctor. We won’t take any more of your time. We just want what’s best for our uncle—Eric’s uncle—Mr. Holman. You seem to really care about Mr. Holman, and we thought you should know these things about him so you can help us get him the sort of care and treatment he really needs.”
The doctor shook hands and smiled and said he’d do what he could and wished us well. He looked and sounded as though he meant it. For all its gruffness, grating accents, and infamous corruption, New Jersey was still a place of humaneness—with or without HIPPA.
* * *
That afternoon, while sifting further through the chaos of UB’s office, I uncovered a plain manila folder, labeled “Western Union” and thick with contents. I didn’t even know Western Union was still in business. Who in the world in 2006 sent telegrams? I sat down on the old swivel chair at one of the desks and opened the folder. Inside were not telegrams but receipts—one after another and another—for wire transfers of thousands upon thousands of British pounds. All had gone to Alexander Nikolic. I went through the receipts a second time to add them up in my head. Rage overtook me as I grasped the obscene volume of funds that UB had been sending to the Serbian fucker. Tens of thousands of British pounds well past 100,000—over $200,000, I figured, based on my estimate of the then current exchange rate[2]. We had allowed the thief to slip right through our grasp. How could we have been so naïve, so stupid? We’d never see the $7,500 check, but in the scheme of things now revealed, that sum was a pittance.
Over $200,000. Enough to have a profound impact on the funding of education for UB’s grand-nieces and nephews. Money gone, money squandered. A chunk of inheritance shoveled into the paws of a total stranger who was a psychological mess. Money thrown into trans-Atlantic cyberspace by a man flat out of his gourd. I felt a renewed sense of urgency to deliver the “contract” that Cliff, Jeanette and I had worked on so feverishly the night before.
Little did I know that despite our intense efforts over the next 24 hours—and next decade—the massive funds flow had just begun.
Meanwhile, ringing in my ears were Jeanette’s words, “He’s playing your uncle like the old fiddle.” Now I was forced to acknowledge that UB wasn’t the only violin in the orchestra. Cliff and I had been played as well. Big time. I wanted to hop on the next flight to London. And when I got there I wouldn’t be knocking before breaking and entering.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Not his real name.
[2] In fact, as I would later confirm, the exchange rate had been within a range of 1.3 to 1.5 (dollars to pounds) over the period in question.
