The seniors were sick, afraid, and confused. It was our job to fix up the rooms and “evaluate.”

We wanted as may seniors as possible to stay, but many were so bad off physically and mentally that our numbers were dwindling.

I was up checking things out on the third floor when I walked past an open door. Inside the dark room was an arrangement, a display of World War II memorabilia and personal belongings that filled me with awe. I stepped further in and took a look around.

Nothing was hung up on the walls, but things were set along the walls, on the floor, and on the chair and dresser. Old snapshots. Ribbons. A hymnal.

I slowly reached out with one finger to touch an old bullet, and a voice from the bed snapped, “Don’t touch that!” I jumped out of my skin. I looked around, and lying on the bed, looking not unlike a corpse, was an old man. He wore an undershirt and nothing else.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. He picked up two little toy dogs, one plastic and very old and another made of yarn with big plastic googly eyes. “Don’t be afraid, Brownie. She won’t hurt us.” And he closed his eyes again.

I quickly excused myself and went down to our makeshift office. I excitedly told Dave, the program director, what and who I had discovered. We looked through the “files” the former owner had left behind, but we couldn’t find much.

We did find that his name was Marvin Mulkaske and that he had a friend in the suburbs who paid his rent. We called the phone number and Dave spoke with the man. He told us that Marvin was a family friend that he was asked to look after him by paying the rent. Marvin had been a chaplain in World War II. He had never married and had no family.

We had to get Marvin to the doctor. I coaxed him into the wheelchair and he clutched his doggies. We went up to the room where the doctor was seeing patients. He took one look at Marvin and admitted him to the hospital. Marvin was terrified.

He got a pacemaker and came back to us. “He’s healthy,” said the doctor. “He’s psychotic as heck, but his heart sounds great.”

Marvin had wild white hair and crazy eyebrows. He had sharp, piercing eyes above a long, pointy nose. This gave him a bird-of-prey-like quality that some found intimidating. But once you got to know Marvin you knew he was a gentle soul.

Marvin began to call me Betty. He yelled all day from his bed. “When do we eat, Betty? What do we do now, Betty? Help us, Betty!” Who was Betty? She was a person from his past, I’m sure. “Betty,” he’d say, “remember when we’d go and pick berries?” Sometimes I’d go and sit in there, sometimes I’d have him come and sit in my office. We’d turn on forties music, and he’d sing along while we worked. Sometimes he’d do the Helen Keller thing and grab food off a plate, or yell his head off while Dave was on the phone. “Betty!! Let’s dance, Betty!!” Dave would give me a look and I knew it was time for Marvin and I to go watch TV in his room.

It was not unusual to be waiting for the elevator door to open and see Marvin standing there, completely naked, on his way to breakfast. His favorite clothes were his red sweat suit and matching golf hat with a tassel. Somehow his nudity wasn’t a big deal. We just told him not to come out without his clothes on.

One morning I came in to Marvin’s room and he had tears in his eyes. “Lawrence Welk is dead,” he said, his voice breaking. I tried to comfort him, but he could not be consoled. I went into the office and Dave said, “Hey, did you hear about Lawrence Welk?” He really had died. How did Marvin know? He didn’t know how to turn his TV on. I asked him. “I just knew,” he said.

We moved him to a new room and set up his things. I had to make sure when the housekeepers came in they were careful with his stuff. One lady went in to change his bed and tossed the dogs on the floor. Marvin, who had been sitting quietly, screamed, “BettyBettyBettyBettyBetty!!” I came running down there and made a big deal out of helping Marvin dust off the doggies, and yes, I made the housekeeper apologize.

To the dogs.

Marvin seemed satisfied.

When I got married, Marvin also became a big part of my husband’s daily life. He’d look for me in Marvin’s room before he’d checked my office. We’d get fast food and eat it in Marvin’s room, and Marvin would eat our french fries. Sometimes my husband would come back from a break at work and there would be a message taped to the door such as, “Rebecca called. Please bring home special glue for dog’s tail.” His coworkers always got a kick out of that.

Marvin got sick. He lingered long in the hospital, gasping for air. He’d rasp, “Help me, Betty.” It broke my heart. I would sit with him and pray. I have never seen anyone suffer like that. It was terrible.

One night, half crazed from sadness and sleep deprivation, I told my husband I wished we could help Marvin die. My husband took my hands and said, “You have no idea what God is doing in Marvin’s heart right now. How could we interfere with God’s plan? Doesn’t He have Marvin in His hands?” He was so right. At the hospital the next day Marvin had a lucid moment—he told me he couldn’t wait to see God. He had a peaceful, happy look on his face I’d never seen before.

Marvin died that night. I kept his foot locker, full of his stuff. I go through it sometimes. I look at his little doggies and tell them it’s okay. Betty’s here. 

First published in Cornerstone (ISSN 0275-2743), Vol. 26, Issue 112 (1997), p. 9-10
© 1997 Cornerstone Communications, Inc.
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