23

IN WHICH MRS. GOLDBLUM
IS DETERMINED TO LEARN
ABOUT HER AFFAIRS

Three weeks after her hip replacement operation, Mrs. Goldblum informed Amanda that she was as right as rain and would appreciate it if Amanda refrained from hovering about as if she were going to die at any moment.

Amanda was not hovering out of fear; Amanda was hovering about a miracle, warming her heart and her spirit in the glow of Mrs. Goldblum’s recovery.

The changes in Emma Goldblum were startling. After a few days of largely Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream (whose sugar and caffeine, Nurse Sendowski explained to Amanda, had a therapeutic effect on older malnutrition cases), Mrs. Goldblum was on a strict diet of wholesome meals and snacks that were designed to build her up. Build her up? How about rebuilding her altogether? From the fragile, elderly old lady who had been admitted to St. Luke’s, there was now a vital, energetic woman of seventy-seven.

Amanda had contacted Daniel Goldblum, Mrs. Goldblum’s son, the day after she had been admitted. While Amanda had expected very little, she had not been quite prepared for Daniel’s reaction to the news. “What the hell can I do about it? Mother knows I’ve got too many obligations here as it is. I can’t go running around the country right now.” Controlling her temper, Amanda had said the polite things to Daniel—for him not to worry, that a phone call to his mother would do great things for her recovery (not that he had called, the stinker, for four days)—but to herself and to Howard (when he had still been around), Amanda had vowed to take a contract out on his life if he did not behave better.

That first week, after an unsuccessful trip to the Social Security office, Amanda had called her mother to ask her advice; Tinker had called the family estate attorney, old Mr. Osborne, and within forty-eight hours Mr. Osborne had arrived in New York. Mr. Osborne (now seventy-eight himself) reviewed what vague information Amanda could offer and then turned her over to “a very fine attorney, right here in town,” a Mr. Thatcher of Wyndom, Tuttle & LeBlanc, who, according to Mr. Osborne, knew all about these matters.

Mr. Thatcher sent a paralegal to St. Luke’s to interview Mrs. Goldblum about her personal history and that of Mr. Goldblum. Then Mr. Thatcher dispatched Amanda to Mrs. Goldblum’s apartment with a long list of documents he wished her to excavate. With Mrs. Goldblum hanging on the phone, Amanda spent the better part of a day digging and sifting through Mrs. Goldblum’s secretary, closets and boxes under a bed in one of the bedrooms. (When she came across Mrs. Goldblum’s canceled checks, she was enraged. One after another, year after year, “Daniel Goldblum,” ten, twenty, twenty-five, thirty thousand dollars!)

Two weeks later a night courier delivered to Amanda a pile of forms that, once signed by Mrs. Goldblum, would not only begin her Social Security payments but would entitle her to six months of retroactive payments. The very next morning another package arrived, containing papers for Medicare that again, once signed, would cover a good portion of Mrs. Goldblum’s current hospital expenses and provide coverage for the future.

There was something else in that second package as well—a copy of a letter from Harry N. Thatcher to Mr. Phillip S. Robin of Charger Industries, letting him know that he could look forward to meeting members of Wyndom, Tuttle & LeBlanc in court one day soon, regarding Charger’s deplorable and damaging treatment of a certain elderly widow named Emma Goldblum.

Well! Amanda practically flew up to St. Luke’s that day. Plunking down form after form on Mrs. Goldblum’s hospital table, Amanda went on and on about how Mrs. Goldblum’s problems were over and how everything was getting straightened out and how all she had to do was—

“Amanda dear,” Mrs. Goldblum interrupted, placing a hand on Amanda’s arm.

“What?”

“Dear darling heart, I know you mean well, but you must get someone, someone who knows what they’re talking about, to come here and explain to me what all of these forms mean.” Amanda paused and then jumped back into excited agitation. “Perhaps you misunderstood me. All you have to do is sign here, here, here—”

“I’m serious, Amanda,” Mrs. Goldblum said. “I won’t sign anything until someone explains to me why I’m suddenly entitled to all of this money.”

“Because—”

Mrs. Goldblum pressed on. “Amanda, when it’s your life being bandied about by strangers, you would want to make sure you understood exactly what you were signing too.” She squeezed Amanda’s hand. “That’s how this whole dreadful affair began—by my not understanding my own affairs. And now I must.”

Mr. Thatcher laughed when Amanda reported this development. “She’s absolutely right,” he said.

When Amanda asked him to come and see Mrs. Goldblum, Mr. Thatcher laughed again. “No, Ms. Miller, that’s not the answer. I think I know what’s worrying your friend. She needs to talk to someone from Social Security—someone who can assure her that this money is indeed coming from them and not from you.”

Amanda called the Social Security office and they told her she would have to come down. She did. She stood in every wrong line, talked to every wrong person, and then finally, after about two hours, was directed to a bright young woman of twenty-three named Sally Goodwin. Sally’s eyes lit up when Amanda told her the story about Mrs. Goldblum, and she said she would be delighted to go up and see her. When Amanda looked vaguely surprised, Sally leaned forward and said, “Just how often do you think we get to deliver good news in this office? Ms. Miller, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll come up one night after work.”

Sally and Mrs. Goldblum got on like gangbusters. Sally went over the forms, line by line, explaining what everything meant. Sally pulled out charts from her briefcase; Sally showed Mrs. Goldblum how to use the calculator she had brought, and made her add the figures herself. (“That much money?” Mrs. Goldblum asked, rather overwhelmed. When Sally said yes, Mrs. Goldblum said, “Oh, laws! Now I’ll have to learn about taxes!”)

Three days later Sally was back, this time lugging a VCR and video tapes. Amanda sat there, smiling in amazement, as Sally hooked the VCR up to the TV and showed both Mrs. Goldblum and Nurse Sendowski how to use it. The four tapes she left with Mrs. Goldblum were from a public affairs program called “Social Security Is for You,” an interview and call-in show that ran on cable television each week. The shows Sally had brought discussed issues that pertained to Mrs. Goldblum. She cued one tape up and Mrs. Goldblum was delighted with the hostess of the show (“I do so enjoy seeing young women dressed nicely”).

Mrs. Goldblum signed all the papers, became officially registered with Social Security and Medicaid, and called her son Daniel to tell him of her good fortune.

When Amanda returned to the hospital the following afternoon, Nurse Sendowski called to her from the nurses’ station, “Better bring a chair with you!” Amanda, not understanding, merely smiled and continued on, Turning into Mrs. Goldblum’s room, she found herself blocked at the door.

Mrs. Goldblum, in the company of six other older women (three in chairs and three in wheelchairs), was watching “Social Security Is for You.” Amanda waved to Mrs. Goldblum from the door; Mrs. Goldblum waved back and then placed her finger over her mouth, signaling Amanda not to interrupt. When the show was over the women—all in dressing gowns politely clapped.

Zapping the VCR off with her remote control, Mrs. Goldblum said, “Does anyone have any questions?”

“Emma,” a Mrs. Jackson, recovering from a kidney stone operation, said, “do I have to bring the forms to the Social Security office, or can I mail them?”

“I believe the hospital takes care of filing the forms. Amanda dear—”

Amanda was startled into attention. “Yes?”

“Would you be so kind as to ask Nurse Sendowski if she would, when she has a moment, stop in? Adelaide,” she said to Mrs. Jackson, “Nurse Sendowski will be able to tell us.”

The Grande Dame of St. Luke’s Hospital was born that day, When patients weren’t mingling in her room, Nurse Sendowski was wheeling Mrs. Goldblum around on visits. And, in a while, it wasn’t just patients paying calls on Mrs. Goldblum but families of patients as well. And not to talk about Social Security—they were there to tell Mrs. Goldblum their life stories and problems.

When Sally returned to pick up the VCR she extended a rather marvelous invitation to Mrs. Goldblum. When she was back on her feet, would Mrs. Goldblum consider coming on “Social Security Is for You” as a guest? To use her story as a case study to instruct other people? Mrs. Goldblum beamed. Well, yes, Mrs. Goldblum would be very pleased to accept their gracious invitation. (Would Amanda—Mrs. Goldblum whispered—take her shopping before her television appearance?)

Mr. Thatcher himself arrived at St. Luke’s one afternoon. Very patiently, very carefully, he explained that Charger Industries wished to settle Mrs. Goldblum’s case out of court.

“My case?” Turning to Amanda, she asked, “Amanda dear, is this nice Mr. Thatcher my attorney?”

“Yes,” Amanda said.

Mrs. Goldblum looked at Mr. Thatcher and patted her nose with a tissue. Lowering her hand, she said, “Mr. Thatcher, I will expect the accounting of your expenses to be directed to me, not to Amanda.”

Mr. Thatcher and Amanda exchanged looks. “Actually—” he began.

“Actually nothing, young man. I pay for the services I receive and that is the end of that. Now tell me,” she continued, smiling, “how is my case progressing?”

Mr. Thatcher explained that the daughter-in-law of the late Bernard Horowitz (“Sydelle?” Mrs. Goldblum asked. “I haven’t seen her since I953. How is she?”) had produced evidence that Mr. Horowitz had set up a pension fund for Mrs. Goldblum’s husband (“Well, I know that, dear,” Mrs. Goldblum said), and for six other employees as well. It was an informal fund, paid out of pocket by Mr. Horowitz. Mr. Thatcher had also discovered that Bernard Horowitz and Horowitz & Sons Importing were one and the same.

“I don’t understand.”

“The business was never incorporated. Every business transaction, every asset of Horowitz Importing, was the personal property of Mr. Horowitz. There wasn’t a single year that the company’s taxes weren’t filed as a part of Mr. Horowitz’s personal income tax return.”

“Is this good news?” Mrs. Goldblum asked.

Was it good news? It meant that Charger was legally responsible to uphold the pension fund, since what they had taken over was not a company per se but Mr. Horowitz’s personal assets, liabilities and obligations. (“Of course,” Mrs. Goldblum sniffed. “I will be glad to see that Mr. Robin receive his come-uppance.”) Mr. Thatcher said that after tracking down the six other employees mentioned in Sydelle’s copy of the pension plan—three of whom were still living (ten minutes were spent updating Mrs. Goldblum on the three who were still alive)—Mr. Thatcher had filed suits on their behalf, tacked onto that of Mrs. Goldblum.

“And so what does that awful man have to say now?”

That awful man and Charger Industries wished to settle out of court, to avoid publicity, and Mr. Thatcher had an offer from them. Mrs. Goldblum’s pension checks would resume, retroactive payments for the past two years would be made and—

“Good heavens, what more could I want?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“What?” Mrs. Goldblum and Amanda said at the same time.

“Mrs. Goldblum,” Mr. Thatcher said, taking on a courtroom demeanor, “I must point out to you that, if you refuse their offer and take them to court, you stand a very good chance of winning anywhere upward of a million dollars in compensation for what they’ve put you through.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“They nearly killed you, Mrs. Goldblum. At the very least, they damaged your health.”

“No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. Mr. Thatcher looked to Amanda. “No, no, no,” Mrs. Goldblum repeated. “Had I taken proper care of my affairs, I would have been on Social Security and would not have run out of money. It’s as simple as that.”

Mrs. Goldblum refused to entertain any notions of taking Charger Industries to court. When Amanda asked her if she understood, if she really understood what she was giving up—lifelong security—Mrs. Goldblum said she was surprised at Amanda. And Mr. Thatcher. “Taking that million dollars would be stealing,” she said. “My husband worked very hard for many years to provide lifetime security for me. Which he did. And while I’m very grateful to you both for proving that he did, I cannot, will not, consider taking any more than what is rightfully mine. Now, about this offer—what did you call it?”

“Settlement.” “Yes, this settlement. Mr. Thatcher, as an attorney, I would assume you are incapable of lying to your client.” Mr. Thatcher laughed.

“How much do you normally receive in fees on a case like mine?”

Mr. Thatcher looked to Amanda. She shrugged.

“Usually, in a case like this, we receive half of whatever money our client is awarded in excess damages.”

“And how much are my excess damages?”

“Roughly one hundred fifty thousand, I’d say.”

“So your fee would be seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Well—”

“Well nothing, Mr. Thatcher. You tell that awful man that if he pays me the payments owed to me, my medical bills from the past two years, and pays you seventy-five thousand dollars, I will not take him to court.”

“Wait—” Amanda said.

They looked at her.

“Mrs. Goldblum was eligible for Social Security in 1971, was she not?”

“Yes,” Mr. Thatcher said, “but the maximum on retroactive claims is six months.”

Amanda took Mrs. Goldblum’s hand. “You are out fourteen and a half years of Social Security payments. Mrs. Goldblum, I urge you to be compensated for that money in the settlement. Mr. Thatcher is right, you know. Your health was nearly destroyed over this pension business, and you must think about your future, about what needs may arise for money.” She paused, watching Mrs. Goldblum’s expression. “If for no other reason, you must think of your grandchildren.”

After a long moment Mrs. Goldblum said. “I had not thought of it in that light.” And so Mrs. Goldblum agreed to be recompensed for the fourteen and a half years of Social Security payments as well.

After Mr. Thatcher departed, Mrs. Goldblum scratched away with a pencil for some minutes on a pad of paper. “Amanda,” she finally said, waving her to her bedside, “I want you to look at this.” Hesitating, she pressed the pad to her chest. “This is to go no further.”

“Of course,” Amanda said.

“Well then,” Mrs. Goldblum said, lowering the pad, “this is how much I will be receiving—retro-actively from Social Security. This is how much I will receive from Mr. Goldblum’s pension—retro-actively. This is how much I will receive in—damages. This is what I receive monthly from Social Security and this is what I receive monthly from Mr. Goldblum’s pension.” She looked up at Amanda. “So you can see, dear, I’m quite well taken care of.” She paused. “I trust we will never have to discuss my financial situation again.”

“No,” Amanda said, smiling. “I don’t think we will.”

Two days later Nurse Sendowski caught Amanda on her way to Mrs. Goldblum’s room and pulled her into the nurses’ station. Nurse Sendowski looked around over her shoulder and then whispered, “Her son’s here. He came this morning.”

“Daniel?”

She nodded. She looked over her shoulder again. “He tried to get Dr. Renaldi to sign some sort of paper that said Mrs. Goldblum was physically incapable of taking care of herself.”

“He didn’t sign it, did he?”

“No,” Nurse Sendowski whispered, eyes widening, “and he threw a fit.”

“Who did?”

Nurse Sendowski broke into a laugh. “They both did.”

Amanda thanked Nurse Sendowski, swore her to secrecy, and prepared herself to, at long last, meet the infamous Daniel Goldblum. “It’s very nice to meet you, Daniel, I’ve heard a great deal about you from your mother,” she said, smiling, holding out her hand.

He stood up from his chair on the other side of the bed and briefly shook her hand. His palm was moist. Amanda could see some resemblance between him and his mother, but not much. First of all, he was terribly untidy. He was wearing a suit—an expensive suit—but his shirt and tie looked as though they had been hung up on the floor. He also needed a haircut. His pale face was, at the moment, being mopped with a handkerchief; and the darting eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses failed to meet Amanda’s.

“Yeah,” he said, thumbing the waist of his pants with his free hand, making Amanda notice his paunchy middle. “Wasn’t it wonderful for Daniel to come, Amanda? Do sit down, dear, and visit with us.”

Daniel looked very annoyed and so Amanda took pleasure in sitting. With a grunt, he reseated himself.

“As I told you, dear, Amanda has been an extraordinary friend to me during this time of trouble.”

“Yes,” Daniel said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I appreciate your helping Mother in my absence.”

Amanda looked directly at him and said, “I would do anything to protect your mother’s interests.”

Daniel took out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead again. “Yeah, I think that’s great.” He stuffed his handkerchief in his pants pocket and reached for the box of chocolates on Mrs. Goldblum’s table. “I need the number for that lawyer you got my mother,” he said, throwing a chocolate in his mouth. It was soon followed by another.

“Daniel wishes to thank Mr. Thatcher,” Mrs. Goldblum said.

“Surely,” Amanda said, opening her purse. “I have his number right here.”

While Amanda was writing the number down, Mrs. Goldblum said to him, “Darling, you should eat something. Why don’t you go down to the coffee shop and have a nice lunch?” She held out her hand for the box in such a manner as to suggest that this was not the first time mother and son had discussed the issue of candy.

“Here you go,” Amanda said, reaching over the bed to hand Daniel the number.

“Thanks.” He scanned the piece of paper and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “I think I will get something to eat, Mother,” he said, leaning to kiss Mrs. Goldblum on the cheek. “But I sure wish I could eat your cooking. I really miss it.”

Mrs. Goldblum was evidently delighted by this statement. “I’ll be back in a little while.” Amanda, nice meeting you.” The handkerchief was out again. “I’ll undoubtedly cross paths with you again,” Amanda said, a smile pressed into use. After he walked out, Mrs. Goldblum smoothed her bedclothes. “It was such a wonderful surprise.”

“I can imagine,” Amanda said.

“Rosanne is coming to visit me again tonight,” Mrs. Goldblum said. “Did I show you the photograph of Jason she gave me?”

“Yes, I saw it yesterday,” Amanda said, pointing to the photo on the bulletin board. “He’s absolutely adorable.”

Mrs. Goldblum chuckled, reaching for the water pitcher. “When I think of you girls smuggling that child in here...”

Amanda laughed, rising out of her chair to assist her. “Did she say when she’ll have him back full time?”

“No, she didn’t,” Mrs. Goldblum said, lying back against her pillow. Amanda handed her the glass. “Thank you, dear. I don’t suppose she can until she moves out of that—place.” She sighed. “I so hope she can find something close to home.”

“I know,” Amanda said, easing herself down onto the edge of the bed. “Mrs. Goldblum—”

She smiled pleasantly, swallowing a bit of water.

“You won’t be signing any more papers, will you?”

“Are there more papers?” Mrs. Goldblum asked, looking at the nightstand as if there might be some she had missed.

“No, none that I know of,” Amanda said. “But if some were to arrive, you wouldn’t sign anything. Would you.” It was not a question.

“Well, of course not, dear. I’ve already explained to you—”

“I know, I know,” Amanda said hastily, rising from the bed. “It’s just, with all the papers flying about, I’d hate to see one escape your watchful eye.” Mrs. Goldblum patted Amanda’s hand. “I wouldn’t let that happen, dear. Not now.”

“No,” Amanda smiled, “I didn’t think you would.”