an important consideration within Dorothea's busy arena. From now on, what he wore, whom he spoke with, and how he spent his time were matters worthy of interest, even scrutiny.
Dorothea was constantly patting down his unruly hair, straightening his clothes, tucking in his shirts. In Spanish, she was always instructing him: "Don't forget to shave, Bert," or "Go and wash your hands," or "Give me your laundry, and I'll make sure you have some clean shirts."
Within two weeks, Dorothea had managed to eradicate Bert's chronic psoriasis—an accomplishment so swift and complete that Judy and Beth blinked with amazement at the sudden improvement in his appearance. His hair was clean; the mantle of flakes had disappeared from his shoulders. And this proved only the beginning.
During their visits over the next several weeks, Judy and Beth were delighted to see how Bert thrived under Puente's care. It seemed that every time they came by, Bert had undergone yet another transformation. The man who had wandered barefoot in summer, or clomped about in ill-fitting boots in winter, now wore snappy new shoes; Dorothea had given him two new pairs. His hair was combed, his nails were clean. And Dorothea made sure he had fresh clothes, making a present of six new shirts, a couple pairs of slacks, and a jacket.
Besides improving his grooming habits, Dorothea seemed to help him psychologically. She curtailed Bert's discourse with the spirits, openly scolding him for "talking to the devil." She even managed to get him to again start taking his antipsychotic medication, Mellaril (though he continued to murmur protests; he never did like the drug).
Over the weeks, Bert seemed more aware, more grounded, more confident. He even started speaking more clearly. One afternoon when she came by the F Street boardinghouse, Judy was startled when Bert came out to greet her, asking, "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine," she answered, stunned that, for the first time, Bert had initiated a conversation.
"Beth said you were sick," he mumbled, but Judy was impressed by Bert's improved pronunciation.
"I was sick this morning but now I'm better," she replied with a nonchalance that masked her astonishment. His former grunts, his monosyllabic "yeah" and "nah" answers had given way to complete sentences!
Judy and Beth, who felt a special responsibility for Bert, were elated. After such a frustrating struggle with his "identity problem," they felt doubly gratified that Bert now had his own room, his own wardrobe. And more than the big meals, more than the creature comforts, they saw that Dorothea Puente offered Bert dignity, reviving in him a connection with his long-neglected Hispanic roots. His self-esteem seemed to soar under her tutelage as they never would have dared hope.
Whatever Dorothea was doing, everyone noticed the near-miraculous improvements in Bert's appearance and demeanor. And Dorothea clearly enjoyed reaping credit for this, seeming to derive personal satisfaction from Bert's progress.
But Bill Johnson, Bert's bearded friend from Detox, viewed the move to Puente's residence with some skepticism. Time and again, Johnson had watched people leave the humble sanctuary of Detox for better accommodations, only to end up having their benefit checks snatched up by greedy landlords. One day while visiting Bert, he even said as much to Mrs. Puente. "All board-and-care operators are in it for the money," he muttered.
Not one to sit back and take insults, the landlady shot back, "If I was, I would have kept the other place," referring to the grand house at 2100 F Street that she'd operated years before.
Johnson knew little and cared less about places she'd managed in the past; he cared about Bert, who he believed was due a large retroactive payment from SSI, (Supplemental Security Income, formerly called Aid to the Totally Disabled). And Johnson harbored a festering suspicion that Puente, that sly old cat, "was going to snag it."
It didn't set well with
Dorothea was constantly patting down his unruly hair, straightening his clothes, tucking in his shirts. In Spanish, she was always instructing him: "Don't forget to shave, Bert," or "Go and wash your hands," or "Give me your laundry, and I'll make sure you have some clean shirts."
Within two weeks, Dorothea had managed to eradicate Bert's chronic psoriasis—an accomplishment so swift and complete that Judy and Beth blinked with amazement at the sudden improvement in his appearance. His hair was clean; the mantle of flakes had disappeared from his shoulders. And this proved only the beginning.
During their visits over the next several weeks, Judy and Beth were delighted to see how Bert thrived under Puente's care. It seemed that every time they came by, Bert had undergone yet another transformation. The man who had wandered barefoot in summer, or clomped about in ill-fitting boots in winter, now wore snappy new shoes; Dorothea had given him two new pairs. His hair was combed, his nails were clean. And Dorothea made sure he had fresh clothes, making a present of six new shirts, a couple pairs of slacks, and a jacket.
Besides improving his grooming habits, Dorothea seemed to help him psychologically. She curtailed Bert's discourse with the spirits, openly scolding him for "talking to the devil." She even managed to get him to again start taking his antipsychotic medication, Mellaril (though he continued to murmur protests; he never did like the drug).
Over the weeks, Bert seemed more aware, more grounded, more confident. He even started speaking more clearly. One afternoon when she came by the F Street boardinghouse, Judy was startled when Bert came out to greet her, asking, "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine," she answered, stunned that, for the first time, Bert had initiated a conversation.
"Beth said you were sick," he mumbled, but Judy was impressed by Bert's improved pronunciation.
"I was sick this morning but now I'm better," she replied with a nonchalance that masked her astonishment. His former grunts, his monosyllabic "yeah" and "nah" answers had given way to complete sentences!
Judy and Beth, who felt a special responsibility for Bert, were elated. After such a frustrating struggle with his "identity problem," they felt doubly gratified that Bert now had his own room, his own wardrobe. And more than the big meals, more than the creature comforts, they saw that Dorothea Puente offered Bert dignity, reviving in him a connection with his long-neglected Hispanic roots. His self-esteem seemed to soar under her tutelage as they never would have dared hope.
Whatever Dorothea was doing, everyone noticed the near-miraculous improvements in Bert's appearance and demeanor. And Dorothea clearly enjoyed reaping credit for this, seeming to derive personal satisfaction from Bert's progress.
But Bill Johnson, Bert's bearded friend from Detox, viewed the move to Puente's residence with some skepticism. Time and again, Johnson had watched people leave the humble sanctuary of Detox for better accommodations, only to end up having their benefit checks snatched up by greedy landlords. One day while visiting Bert, he even said as much to Mrs. Puente. "All board-and-care operators are in it for the money," he muttered.
Not one to sit back and take insults, the landlady shot back, "If I was, I would have kept the other place," referring to the grand house at 2100 F Street that she'd operated years before.
Johnson knew little and cared less about places she'd managed in the past; he cared about Bert, who he believed was due a large retroactive payment from SSI, (Supplemental Security Income, formerly called Aid to the Totally Disabled). And Johnson harbored a festering suspicion that Puente, that sly old cat, "was going to snag it."
It didn't set well with
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