Nanny-Bot Refused

OldTown WeKare Inc.

Nanny-Bot Refused, the first background story in the newest OldTown novel, OldTown WeKare Inc., Gertrude Jacobs turns seventy-five and has to decide who she really is.

“Rail thin and old as the hills.” The words rang in Gertie Jacobs’ ears as her mind awakened from slumber, the room still cloaked in predawn darkness. With a sigh, she shoved her blanket and the strident tone away, rose from her bed, and hobbled to the bathroom. A routine she didn’t have to think about allowed her time to fully awaken, pull on her work pants and a comfortable sweater, and slip on soft booties. She couldn’t abide socks and her thick-soled shoes until after she’d had her toast and coffee.

A glimmer of yellow-orange light, highlighting the window frame, warned that the day would outrun her if she didn’t keep on schedule. But the words rankled as they played through her mind once more. Rail thin and old as the hills. That’s how people described her when she wasn’t around to hear. But she knew. Her daughter, Martha Jacobs-Kaput, had mentioned it. Several times.

Leaning over the bathroom sink and peering into the rectangular mirror, Gertie had to agree. Starved Pteranodons would be proud to wear her face. Martha wasn’t lying; she simply wasn’t kind. Not her style.

Oh well. I do the best I can.

Gertie liked to blame the internet for the growing chasm between herself and her daughter, but since she avoided technology like an ancient Celtic curse, she couldn’t really say what caused it.

Radioactive filaments get people’s brains tangled. That had to be it.

Dabbing warm water on her face, a couple of runs of a comb through her short hair, and Gertie decided she could face the world, even if it didn’t like the way she looked. “I’m seventy-five years old today. It’s not my fault that I’m no longer the beauty I once was.”

A striped orange cat meandered in and meowed plaintively.

Gertie nudged the quadruped from her path so as not to trip. “All I need is a broken hip, and Martha will place me on one of those die-with-dignity lists. Awe, the heck with ’em!” she muttered at the cat.

Seventy-five might be a milestone in some books, but as far as Gertie was concerned, it was just another day in a long life. The idea of baking herself a cake verged on pathetic, and besides, she wasn’t terribly keen on sweets since Ada Alden had foisted a box of leftover doughnuts on her at the last Sunday church gathering.

Considering herself blessed at the time, Gertie had eaten one at the gathering, had one with a cup of herbal tea at noon, and another as part of an afternoon pick-me-up after a nap. A dumb mistake I shouldn’t have made at my age. It took her the better part of the following week to get her digestive system back in order.

Following the cat into the kitchen, Gertie resolved to keep things simple. She’d make her usual black coffee and toast slathered with butter and honey, then sit down with her ancient Bible and see where she was in the Old Testament drama. She alternated between the Old Testament and the New Testament each day to keep herself spiritually balanced. How the modern world managed to move forward without the guidance of humanity’s ancient lessons amazed her. The possibility that the world wasn’t actually advancing buzzed in the back of her mind like a crazed end-of-the-season fly.

With enough morning light to direct her steps, Gertie went about her business. The coffee pot had kindly done its thing, and there was enough in there for exactly two cups. One more than her doctor recommended, but she had no intention of mentioning that fact to anyone.

To add a festive tone, she pulled out a plate with pumpkin decorations scrolled around the edge. Then she poured herself a medium glass of orange juice, fixed her toast, poured her coffee, and arranged everything on the table.

Just then, the kitchen door blew open. Or at least that’s what Gertie assumed must’ve happened. Until she turned around and saw her daughter’s face.

Wearing the stylized suit that always reminded Gertie of a straitjacket, Martha breezed into the kitchen, bright eyes and a blazing smile leading the way. “Happy birthday, Mother! You’ve made it to seventy-five. Quite an achievement!” She leaned in for a snatched hug and just as quickly pulled back and started rummaging in the black bag she called a purse, hanging over her shoulder. “Here, I got you something.”

Startled out of reckoning, Gertie wasn’t sure what to do. She simply gripped the back of a kitchen chair and waited for the scene to play itself out. Martha never stayed long and never asked how she was, or if she did, she didn’t wait to hear the answer. Gertie forced herself not to glance over at her waiting toast and cooling coffee.

Her hands out, Martha waved a brochure with a ghastly picture of a human-sized robot with a blank face dressed in an eighteenth-century maid’s uniform with a frilly cap on its head. “Look! It’s the newest thing. A nanny-bot for the elderly. It can do everything—cook, set meals on the table, sweep the floor, wash the dishes, do the laundry, load the dryer, and even fold your clothes. Why, if you’re sick, it’ll even bring your medicine to your bedside.”

A glance at her phone. “Gosh, look at the time! I gotta dash. A stupid tractor took up the whole road for miles. I thought they were only going to run those things in the middle of the night now that they’re getting them all automated.”

The image of a smashed car tilted on the edge of a ravine ran through Gertie’s mind. But it was no use saying anything. Technology was taking over. Gertie had better get used to it. She accepted the pamphlet tentatively. “I don’t understand. You mean to say that you bought a robot for me?”

Chagrined, Martha’s eyes rolled upward as a sigh blew a stray lock of hair from her face. “Not a robot. A nanny-bot. It was created especially for old people and can do all the usual household chores, but it also knows jokes, can answer questions about religion, society, and culture. It can read the news to you and explain what it means.” She reached out and grabbed back the pamphlet. “I got the gold deluxe. You won’t have to go to church anymore. It can hold services right in your own home.” She flipped through the pages. “I’m pretty sure there’s a Confessional and Absolution certificate in here somewhere.”

Horror left Gertie spluttering, “B-b-but I like going to church.”

“You shouldn’t be on the road at your age. Even with self-driving cars, there’s a huge risk you’ll fall somewhere, and that would be hard on everyone. This way, no one has to worry about you. Since I bought it and arranged delivery, I set it to message me every day. It’ll give me a full report of everything you’ve been doing and readings of your blood pressure and even do blood work if it thinks it’s necessary.”

Her mouth forming a tight line, Gertie slapped her hands on her thin hips and jutted her chin forward. “I am not going to obey a robot. No matter how much you paid for it. I don’t care. I won’t have it in my house.”

Rearing back, her eyes blinking like matching lighthouses, Martha’s mouth dropped open, the pamphlet limp in her hand. “You won’t what?”

Aware that she was smashing herself against a rock, Gertie kept her voice even. “No, thank you. I know you mean well, but I’m not interested in a nanny-bot or any kind of bot. I don’t even like those rotating vacuum cleaners, some of the women at church rave about. With wood floors and two good brooms, I don’t need your machine to run my life. Or me, for that matter.”

Her mouth closing and her stare hardening, Martha seemed to be making up her mind in a decidedly unpleasant manner. “If you’re set on refusing this, then fine. I will cancel the order. It’ll mean I have to eat the deposit, but I’m sure you’re not concerned about that. So long as you get what you want.”

“But I don’t want anything!” Frustration shivering through her body, Gertie felt tears flood her eyes. “I haven’t asked for anything in years. I take care of myself and leave you to your life, such as it is.”

Her eyes hooded now, Martha squinted even as the room brightened with the new day. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gertie shrugged and pulled out the chair she had been using as support. She plopped down with a heavy sigh. “It’s just that we live in different worlds. I don’t understand yours, and you don’t understand mine. But while I respect your choices, you don’t respect mine. You’re always trying to get me to adapt. I don’t want to adapt. I like my life the way it is.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Martha’s head leveled like a torpedo ready to launch. “You’re getting old, Mother. Who do you think will have to take care of you? Me, of course. It’ll all land on me. I have enough work to do at WeKare Industries. I can’t be babysitting you in your dotage.”

There was nothing more to be said. Gertie knew that in Martha’s mind, she was an unreasonable old woman. Tears blurred her vision, but she would not lose her composure. Not yet. She swallowed a lump in her throat and straightened. “Thank you for coming, Martha. I have a nice day planned, so don’t worry about me. I’m going out with friends.” She rose and made a show of heading to her bedroom. “If you don’t mind, I had better get ready, or I will be late.”

With an exasperated shake of her head, Martha trotted over and pecked her mother on the cheek. “I do love you—you know that. I am just trying to help.”

Her throat aching with strain, Gertie nodded vigorously. “Yes, I know.”

When the door shut behind her daughter, Gertie dropped back onto the kitchen chair and let herself fall to pieces.

By noon, Gertie had choked down the soggy toast and cold coffee, cleaned the dishes, and done her morning chores. Her faithful hound, Boscoe, nearly as old as she was—in canine years—slept blissfully in the sun in the backyard. Orange cat, also known as Mr. Perkins, had zipped out the door and was now patrolling his kingdom, undoubtedly looking for unwary mice or moles that dared to dig in his territory.

Gertie followed her cat outside, gathered a few branches that had blown down during the night, and set them in the winter kindling pile by the fence.

A small silver car pulled into the driveway.

Her heart still aching from the morning’s altercation with her daughter, Gertie was in no mood for visitors. She squinched her eyes and peered across the yard. Who on Earth? The only person who visited regularly was Ada Aldan, but it didn’t look like her. Besides, being married to the richest man in the county, Ada would never drive a beat-up old thing like that.

A middle-aged woman wearing a heavy sweater lumbered out of the driver’s seat, one arm around a wicker basket. She looked over, smiled, and offered a pert wave.

“Rhona Dewar, is that you?”

Rhona shut the car door and padded her way across the yard, both arms wrapped around the basket.

Boscoe lifted his head, surveyed the scene, decided that his world was safe enough, and stretched lazily on the soft ground.

Rhona’s voice was never high, but she raised it loud enough to travel he distance comfortably. “Well, I noticed on Facebook that it was your birthday today. Seventy-five! And I happen to have a few extras from the garden and late-season apples. Thought you might like ’em.” A twinkle in her eyes suggested a shared joke. “Better than those donuts Ada foisted on you a few weeks ago.”

Hunger pains stirring, Gertie realized that she could do with something nutritious. It had to be getting on one o’clock. She had skipped lunch altogether. She waved Rhona to the porch. “Well, I don’t have anything to do with Facebook. Something my daughter must have set up to drag me into the modern age.” After a moment of confused hesitation, Gertie gathered her scattered thoughts. “But you’re a welcome sight. Come on in and have a little repast with me. I missed my lunch, so I could use a little company, a kind human to make me sit down and act reasonable.”

As soon as the snappish words were out of her mouth, Gertie wanted to take them back. She wasn’t sure why she had said them, and definitely couldn’t explain the guilt that had haunted her all day.

A shadow falling over Rhona’s face, she compliantly followed Gerties up the porch steps and into the warm kitchen. She stepped over to the counter. “Should I leave these here? Or do you want me to put them downstairs?”

Gertie waved to the counter. “There’s fine. I haven’t been down those stairs in months. Martha tells me that I’ll fall and die a lingering death on the cold floor. Kind of takes the adventuresome spirit out of me.”

Her expression darkening, Rhona pulled out a chair at the round kitchen table. “You mind if I sit a moment? I’ve been running all day.”

Gertie had pulled a loaf of bread from the cupboard and was working on wrestling turkey and cheese slices from the crisper in the refrigerator. “Please say you’ll have lunch with me. Only sandwiches, but I could open a can of chicken noodle if you’d like.”

Grinning as she pulled off her outer sweater, Rhona’s words grew muffled. “No soup, a sandwich would be perfect. I can’t stay long.” Her head popped free, and she tugged at the final sleeve. “Dermid is over at the cemetery trying to help a couple pick out their spots. Always a bit nerve-wracking. I like to stay out of the way and listen to the drama afterwards.”

Laying out the multi-grain bread slices and then layering cheese and turkey on each, Gertie kept her hands busy, her mood lightening in the ordinary conversation. “Nerve-wracking? You mean the couple doesn’t agree on where to lay their bones?”

A chuckle, and Rhona folded her sweater over the back of her chair. “Oh, not them. No, they know what they want. It’s Derm. He’s afraid he’ll get things mixed up and sell a spot that’s already sold or mark it down wrong. For a man who is so sure of himself when it comes to numbers, he gets flustered when it comes to plotting gravesites.”

Gertie stared like a woman who had forgotten where she was. Then recollecting herself, she hurried to the refrigerator and pulled out the mayo and mustard. She held them out.

Rhona nodded in affirmation.

Gertie slathered them on, rooted through the gift basket, then drew forth a baggie of dark green leaves. “You always raise a late batch of Kale, don’t you? Amazing. I can’t hardly keep my cactus alive.” She added the greens as another layer, and then slapped the two edible towers on plates. She handed one to Rhona. “Want some chips?”

Rhona waved off the thought. “Naw. I’ve got a roast for dinner. This will hold me till then.” Smiling appreciatively, she took a grand bite.

Once the majority of the meal had succumbed to its natural destination, Rhona wiped her lips on an offered napkin and glanced around. “Is Martha stopping by with dinner or something?”

Her stomach tightening too hard to digest her food comfortably, Gertie tried to adjust her position on the chair. “She came this morning.”

Perhaps it was the way she said it, but Rhona seemed to know intuitively that there was more. She folded her hands on her lap, leaned back, and waited patiently.

Before she knew what she was about, Gertie described the morning events like a daytime soap opera. Instead of crying, as she had feared she might, fury built to the point where she was practically spitting her last words. “To think! She wants to set me up with some robot to manage my life, as if I’m too decrepit to do anything for myself.” She rose, rotated to the cabinet, clutched two glasses, then swung to the refrigerator, pulled out a carafe of apple cider, and filled the glasses. She handed one to Rhona, sat down, and took a long swig. Then she eyed Rhona. “I wish this were something stronger.”

Rhona burst out laughing. “Well, I’ll tell you what. I have something a mite stronger at my house, and when you come for dinner tonight, which you will, or my heart will be broken and Derm will spend his last years languishing as a nervous cemetery secretary, you and I will toast to a robot-free future.”

Though Gertie had reconciled herself to a quiet birthday at home with leftover sausage and sauerkraut for dinner, her heart pounced on the opportunity. She slid her thumb thoughtfully over the nearly empty glass. “You’re a real friend, Rhona. You know that?”

Blinking back something that might be kin to tears, Rhona slugged back her drink, wiped her mouth, and rose from the chair. “You’ve got to tell Dermid about the nanny-bot. He’ll look it up online, and his eyes will turn red. If we’re lucky, steam might actually come out of his ears.”

Feeling better than she had in ages, Gertie jumped to her feet and smacked a fist into her open hand. “I’ll describe every gory detail. Maybe he can put it on that Facebook thing so everyone knows what’s coming to get us old ladies.”

Swinging her sweater over her arm, Rhona’s grin turned wicked. “We’ll get Ada to put it in her OldTown News Announcements.” She shook her head in sage warning. “If we don’t stick together, the world will pull us apart.” She loped to the door and stopped short. “You want Derm to pick you up?”

Her hands on her hips, Gertie pretended umbrage. “Think I’m dangerous on the roads?”

Deadpan, Rhona shot right back. “Only when you wanna be.”

A snort, and Gertie patted her friend’s arm. “Five or six?”

“Make it five thirty, and we’ll have time to belt back some of my mulberry wine before we dig into the roast. I believe there might even be some pie and ice cream tucked away for special occasions.”

Her high spirits dropping back to earth, Gertie followed Rhona onto the porch. “Seventy-five isn’t a special occasion.”

Rhona leaned in and offered a fierce, devoted hug. “But you are. Always.” Then she hurried down the steps and back into her little car. She drove away as unpretentiously as she had driven in.

Gertie returned to her kitchen and gathered up the dishes. As soapy water filled the sink, she stared out the window at the backyard she had landscaped with her husband, the man she had loved, fought with, and cared for until his last day, five years before. “Oh, Richard, what would you say about all this?”

She didn’t have to stretch her imagination to hear his voice. “Just keep on being you, woman. I married you for a reason.” Comforted, she let her mind wander. Rhona does so much for people. Ada, too. No one would even think of giving them a nanny-bot.

An idea kindled in her mind as she tidied up and then plunked down on her prayer chair in the living room. She clasped the old Bible in her hands and closed her eyes. She didn’t have to stretch her imagination to hear a voice she knew well. “Just keep on being you, woman. I created you for a reason.”

Gertie smiled. She would.