I
grew up in what was essentially a three-generation household. My maternal
grandparents stayed with us off and on for months at a time because my
grandfather, who’d been born in the last years of the 19th century
and was ancient even when I was a kid, was being treated for various ailments
at the VA hospital in the city where we lived. My grandmother hated my father
and the feeling was mutual, and their ongoing hostilities made life a living
hell for my mother.
I
loved my grandmother dearly but she was one tough old woman who spoke her mind
and damn the consequences. Buck Schatz, the ornery ex-cop at the center of
Daniel Friedman’s new novel (the second in a much-heralded series) reminds me a
lot of my grandmother. This was a woman who was such a terrible cook that any
time we went to see her, we’d insist on taking her out to eat to avoid having
to consume some godawful concoction she’d whip up out of lime gelatin and
mayonnaise. And yet, she had no problem criticizing her daughter’s cooking. But
at least she had the option of cooking for herself. That’s not true for Bud
Schatz, and one of the (many) indignities he’s had to suffer at the Valhalla
Estates Assisted Lifestyle Community for Older Adults is that the food is close
to inedible.
"Whoever
said that life in assisted-living facilities lacked variety clearly never had
breakfast at Valhalla. A single plate of scrambled eggs could have burnt bits,
cold places, and runny parts."
