by J.P.J. Fox
Roger is always fun to talk with, and Irene has her good days, but Ellie is unpredictable. I visit each of them on Thursday afternoons. If I’m ever tucked into a senior home, I hope someone visits me. Even a place as lively as The Meadows can be lonesome.
“Why do you come here, Zach?” Irene asks me. “Look outside—it’s a beautiful day. What are you doing in here?”
“Then let’s go outside for a walk.” I smile because I feel good about making her day better.
Out in the courtyard Irene admires and identifies various flowers we amble by. Clutching my arm, she points with her cane to call attention to her favorites.
“The daffodils look dry,” she says with concern. Around the bend she rejoices, “Look at those tulips! They’re peaking this week.”
“I like the two-tone ones best,” I add. “Shall we take the path by the bushes?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “Let’s see how the forsythia are doing.”
We saw them last week and the week before, but I’m happy to help her monitor. After our stroll Irene is a bit tired, but much more cheerful than before.
When I drop in to see Roger, he boasts, “Zach, I’m at level 7 now! Ben’s just reached 9!” He knows I barely understand the game he’s playing against his grandson, but I like to keep up on progress. Then Roger shows me this week’s collection of comics that he’s clipped from his daily newspapers.
“Three from The Lockhorns this week,” he says. We laugh at each one.
He follows with Peanuts, Pickles and Family Circus.
“Nothing from Blondie this week?” I ask when he’s finished.
“Nope. I was a little disappointed with those. . . . How’s work, Zach? Is the school year winding down?”
“The library’s been busy early, before classes begin. Students are buckling down with research assignments. This morning I was helping a freshman looking up assassinations of U.S. presidents.”
“Lincoln, Kennedy,” Roger lists quickly. “. . . McKinley . . . There’s another one.” He scratches his chin.
I let him ponder, and he adds, “Garfield .”
“That’s all four,” I say. “The student I was helping said she wanted to rank them, but she wasn’t sure how.”
We switch to baseball talk. After nearly ten minutes of praise and disappointment over teams, I ease into my departure by standing.
Roger stands too and says, “Rank the assassinations by popularity.”
“Popular assassinations?”
“I mean by how many people remember which presidents were assassinated, and which ones they recall first.”
I nod, thinking, not a bad idea. “See you next week, Roger.”
Ellie is different. She sits in her wingback armchair, like she’s prepared for a visitor, yet is startled when one shows up, even if it’s me, on schedule. Her son also visits, but not as often as she reports. Ellie repeats things now and then.
Sometimes she volunteers stories. Some I believe, and others I doubt.
This Thursday she asks me, “Did I tell you about Walter?”
“Yes. He’s your late husband.”
“Walter was John’s father, but he was never my husband. I lied about that. . . . He was a bank robber. Did I tell you that?”
“No. You told me Walter was a policeman.”
Disguising a devilish grin, she looks away. “I’d marry a policeman, but I wouldn’t marry a thief. . . . Walter said ‘just one more job,’ then he would quit the force and take us to an island, and we would live in paradise.” She turns her head back, and stares into space. “He even kept a suitcase packed at my place, ready to go.”
I notice Ellie’s wearing bracelets today, and a diamond ring beside the simple gold ring I’ve always assumed was a wedding band.
“He was shot, you know,” Ellie reminds me.
“Yes, you told me that.”
I give her a moment.
“If my son thinks he’s getting any of Walter’s money, just for visiting me once a year, he’s in for a surprise.” Ellie snaps out of her gaze, looks at me, and adds, “You can have it—it’s all cash, in a suitcase. You want the jewelry too?”
There’s a pause Ellie doesn’t notice, while I regard her latest statement. Then I say to comfort her, “John visits more often than that,” although she’s only off by one visit. He comes around Mother’s Day and Christmas.
During the next pause I look out the window. “Let’s go outside to the courtyard. It’s warm and sunny out.”
Ellie glances at the bright view. “Okay,” she says, looking at me, “but you’re not getting a dime, John.”
© 2024 Jason Paul Fox All rights reserved.
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