by Noelle Adams
“Oh, look,” I say, after several minutes. “He’s found something.”
Dave has leaned over to peer at the squirrel in question. “What is it? A piece of bread?”
“I think it’s a piece of donut,” I say, after my own examination. “Someone must have dropped it yesterday. Look how proud he is of it.”
Dave and I chuckle as we watch the squirrel lord his find over the other one.
“My dogs used to chase squirrels,” I say, smiling at so many memories. “The squirrels would always run up trees, and then they’d hang out in the branches, teasing the poor dogs. I’m sure they would do it on purpose.”
“Which of your dogs?” he asks. I’ve mentioned my dogs a couple of times before, so he knows I’ve had several in my life.
“All of them. They were all Spaniels, and they all saw squirrels as enemies that needed to be vanquished. Alcott, my last dog, used to try to jump up after them in the trees. She was able to balance on her hind legs for several seconds as she tried to reach them.” My smile fades a little as I think about my dear brown cocker spaniel, who died only a few months ago.
The memory hits me hard for some reason, and my eyes start to burn.
I glance away, strangely embarrassed.
Dave doesn’t say anything, although I know he must notice my reaction.
After a minute, he reaches over and picks up my hand, which has been resting on the bench beside me. He holds my hand in his in a comforting gesture that can’t possibly be mistaken.
I’m surprised—very surprised—but I don’t pull my hand away. I don’t want to pull it away. His hand is wrinkled, like mine, and he has more age spots on his skin than I do. But his hand is warm and dry, and it feels solid. Secure.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve touched another person like this, in more than a casual gesture. It warms something inside me—the knowledge that Dave is here, he understands how I feel about Alcott, he wants me to feel better.
We sit on the bench together in silence for a long time, holding hands. He occasionally strokes the back of my hand with his thumb, but just lightly and not in a way that feels intrusive or annoying.
It feels nice. Really nice.
I’m almost embarrassed by how much I enjoy it, how I feel a little breathless as I sit beside him.
It seems like this sort of thing should feel different as you get older, but it doesn’t.
It really doesn’t.
seven
In the afternoon, I stop by Marjorie’s room, since she wasn’t at breakfast or lunch. It’s strange for me not to see her at all during a day. I’m a little worried about her failure to appear.
I have to knock twice before I get an answer, and then it’s just a faint sound of her voice, telling me to come in from inside.
I open the door and walk into an apartment that is set up very similarly to mine—only Marjorie doesn’t have the corner with windows on two walls or a patio.
It feels strange and unnerving to walk into a dark room in the middle of the afternoon. It feels off, wrong, with all the blinds closed and none of the lamps or overhead lights on.
“Oh dear,” I say, walking farther in and seeing that Marjorie is lying in bed under the covers. “Are you sick?”
“Just not feeling up to snuff today,” she says with a fluttery smile. She’s very pale. I can see it even in the darkened room. “It’s so kind of you to come visit.”
“I was wondering about you, since you didn’t show up for breakfast or lunch.” I glance around and see a small side chair against a wall, so I drag it over close enough to her bed so I can sit down and talk to her. “Do you think you have a virus or something?”
She shakes her head, her fluffy white hair brushing against her skin. “It’s just my heart. It’s always giving me problems.”
I feel a drop in my belly at hearing this. I hadn’t realized that Marjorie has heart problems, and they’re likely to be more serious than a short-lived bug. “Have you seen the doctor?”
“Charlotte said he’ll be by this afternoon, and she’ll make sure he looks in on me. It’s that very nice Dr. Martin.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“He comes by every week.” Her mood seems as light and scattered as it always does, but she’s breathless and has to pause occasionally between words. “He has a lot of patients here, and he’s so good about checking on us. He’s such a kind, quiet man. You’ll like him.”
“I’m sure I will. He sounds like a very good doctor, to come out here to see his patients.”
“Gladys is his patient too. She had to see him last week.”
“Did she? She didn’t look sick.” Maybe it was her ankles, troubling her from always wearing such ridiculously high heels.
Marjorie lifts her head up a little and then says in a stage whisper. “Female troubles.”
My eyebrows go up high. In my day, any number of ailments might be labeled female troubles, from PMS to an unwanted pregnancy. But surely none of those particular conditions could possibly apply to Gladys. So, maybe it’s nosy—it is most certainly nosy—but I ask anyway, since I want to know. “What kind of female troubles?”
I keep my voice down out of respect for Marjorie’s sensibilities, not because of any of my own. I’ve never been embarrassed by sex or the basics of biology—not since I was a teenager.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replies, shaking her head in concern. “Some sort of infection, I believe. She’s been …” Marjorie clears her throat. “She’s been at it, I believe.”
I’m already feeling kind of low, since Marjorie is clearly so ill. This news, however, causes my gut to twist into a painful knot.
Gladys has been at it.
I can’t help but wonder who she’s been at it with.
I’m not naive. I’m not even close. I know very well that many of the residents here are having sex. Ever since those little pills for men became readily available, sex as a common activity for seniors has been back on the table.
So to speak. Most of us wouldn’t be limber enough to do much on an actual table.
I can look around at mealtimes and pick out couples that I’m quite sure are sexually intimate, and others I suspect—even some that haven’t even identified themselves as couples.
But I never thought it might be true of Dave and any of the women here. I certainly haven’t seen any clear signs of such a thing, and I don’t like the idea that he’s been having sex with Gladys.
Not just because I don’t think she’s right for him at all. But also because, if he has been having sex, then he’s been stringing her along in a rather heartless way.
She obviously wants to be paired up with him, but he has done nothing obvious to confirm that they’re a couple. If they’re having sex, however, then there’s every reason for Gladys to think they should be a couple.
I have no doubt that casual sex happens at any age and stage of life, but there’s no way in the world that Gladys wants to be casual. She wants to be with Dave for real. I suddenly feel sorry for Gladys, with her bleached hair and vaginal infection.
I really hope Dave hasn’t been taking advantage of her feelings.
I can’t respect a man who does that, no matter how desperately he wants to reclaim the virility of his youth. I just can’t.
“Oh,” I say, since clearly I need to respond in some way to what Marjorie has told me. I clear my throat. “I’m surprised she talks about it, since it seems like a private matter.”
“It should be.” Marjorie is shaking her head. “It should be, but you know how things are here. She’s kind of a show-off, and she was hinting at it the other day during our bridge game.”
“I see. Did she give any hint about who her partner has been?”
Maybe it’s wrong of me to ask, but if it’s Dave, I want to hear it straight out, so I’ll know what to think.
“Oh, you know how she is.”
I do know how she is, but this doesn’t give me an answer at all. So
I ask more directly, “Is it Dave Andrews, do you think?”
Marjorie’s eyes go as round as saucers. “Dave? Oh, no, I don’t think so. She wants him, but she doesn’t have him. Dave has eyes for you.”
My relief is palpable, and it’s rather worrying, since I shouldn’t care so much about what Dave does. So he held my hand this morning. That doesn’t mean anything, necessarily.
“Gladys spends time with Milton Collier, so that’s who I believe it must be. I don’t understand what they’re thinking.” Marjorie is still shaking her head, clearly baffled by such goings-on.
Milton Collier I’ve seen but never met. He reminds me of a peacock, always strutting and puffing out his chest and trying to make a lot out of himself. His being with Gladys in that way makes a lot more sense to me than her with Dave. That story rings true, and I genuinely believe it’s not just because I want it to be true.
Since Marjorie is waiting for a response from me, I say softly, “I guess, when folks are our age, they want to grab hold of life, in any way they can.”
“I suppose. I just think there are easier and less messy ways to grab hold of life.” Marjorie looked faintly disgusted.
In the times I had a partner, I had a pretty good sex life—one I enjoyed—but I know that’s not true of all women. Maybe it’s not true of Marjorie. Or, maybe, like me, she just feels too tired most of the time to even think about having sex anymore.
“Anyway,” I say, deciding to change the subject. I shouldn’t be feeding my own curiosity when Marjorie isn’t feeling well. “We should talk of something more pleasant, to perk you up a little.”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “I’d love to be perked up.” She looks very old and very pale and very tired. I’m suddenly scared for her. “Do you like to knit?”
I smile as I tell her I don’t. We have a light conversation about the various things she’s knitted in her life until there’s a light tap on the door.
Charlotte comes in with a balding, middle-aged man. I remember him from the day I arrived here. He held the door open for me with such a nice smile.
This is evidently Dr. Martin, whom Charlotte calls John.
I offer to leave, but Marjorie doesn’t want me to, so I move away from the bed as he chats with her and examines her.
He’s the sort of man I would want for a doctor. He’s got the most soothing, gentle voice, and his brown eyes are so sincerely warm. He’s probably close to fifty, and he’s lost at least half his hair, but I really like his face—as much as I like his manner.
“It’s really nice of him to come out to see patients here,” I say to Charlotte. Both of us are standing in the living room area so we don’t intrude.
“Yes. He’s always done it, ever since I started working here. He goes to see some of his patients in town too, if they can’t get out to come to the office for him.”
“How generous he must be.”
“He’s a good guy.” Charlotte is smiling in his direction, with genuine appreciation. It’s not anything like the look I saw her give to Kevin last week, but it suddenly sparks an idea.
“Is he married?” I ask. I’m an old lady. I can ask those kinds of things without people thinking I’m rude.
Charlotte shakes her head. “No.”
“I would think a lot of women would be looking in his direction, then.”
She looks surprised. “Oh, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t know, though. Maybe they do.”
She’s shrugged off Dr. Martin as if he is of no interest to her, other than being a good doctor for the residents here. It bothers me that she’s done so, even though I know very well that I did the same thing when I was her age and younger.
I can look back and pinpoint several good men I never gave a second thought to—all of whom would have made excellent husbands and partners.
I feel kind of down as I wait for him to finish up with Marjorie, and I listen as he gently tells her she might be feeling a lot better tomorrow. With her condition, she’s going to have some bad days, but nothing serious seems to have changed.
I can read between the lines. She only has a certain amount of time left with her heart—so she can’t expect to always feel good.
On his way out, he pauses where Charlotte and I are standing.
“Can you keep her company for a little while?” he asks me. “She’s so social that having someone with her always helps her feel better.”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course. I’m happy to.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry we haven’t met before.” He holds out his hand to me. “I’m John Martin. It’s very nice to meet you.”
I shake his hand and introduce myself and like him even more now than I did before.
I see his eyes dart over briefly to Charlotte, but he’s looking down as he murmurs, “You’ll call me if anything changes, Charlotte?”
“Of course,” she says. “Thanks for coming out.”
“Were you able to make the art exhibit in town last weekend?” he asks. The two have obviously known each other for a while, and it seems a perfectly normal piece of casual conversation.
But I see something in how he keeps looking and then looking away from her.
Charlotte smiles at him with her normal cheerful demeanor. Nothing special. Nothing intimate. “No, I had to miss it. I was hoping—” She breaks off when a chirp from her pocket indicates she’s received a text message. “Excuse me,” she says, after glancing at her phone.
She turns her back on Dr. Martin and me.
When you’ve lived long enough, you develop a certain kind of intuition. And I know—I know as sure as anything—that the text is from Kevin.
There’s a faintly wistful expression in Dr. Martin’s eyes as he gives her back one last glance. Then he turns to me with another quiet smile. “Thank you for staying with her. It was very nice to meet you.”
“You too.” I walk with him to the door, since I want his presence to be validated. He’s one of those people who fade into the background, whom others tend to overlook unless they need them.
I’ve sometimes felt like that myself, but I suspect he’s far more that kind than I ever was.
Since shaking Charlotte by the shoulders and telling her that Dr. Martin is a far better romantic choice for her than Kevin will ever be is not really a possibility for me, there’s nothing I can do but watch and wish that people were smarter.
The next morning, I’m rather distracted as I drink my tea, get dressed, and go outside to meet Dave.
I’m worried about the state of my feelings for Dave. I’m worried about Marjorie. And I’m worried about Charlotte and that sweet Dr. Martin. So I don’t feel as focused or excited as I normally am while I walk through the garden.
I’m happy to see Dave, though, as he’s standing there on the path at the edge of the woods. He’s dressed in one of the golf shirts he normally wears and a pair of tan trousers. He’s smiling as I approach him.
It’s a nice smile. One that feels real. I can’t help but smile back as I fall in step with him.
“You look very nice today,” he says.
I glance down at myself, vaguely surprised since I didn’t put much thought into my appearance earlier. I’m wearing a broomstick skirt and a tunic top with a cardigan sweater, since the morning feels a little cool. “Thank you.”
I don’t really need my walker anymore. I still use it, but it’s mostly as a security measure. I don’t lean on it anymore. I’ve been thinking about switching over to a cane. I’m planning to check with the doctor at my appointment on Monday to make sure that’s okay.
It will be nice to put this walker away for good.
The thought of the doctor reminds me of yesterday. I really hope Marjorie is feeling better today. I’ll check on her right after breakfast. She should be awake by then.
I don’t really feel like talking on our walk to the bench, and Dave doesn’t seem inclined to be chatty today either. It’s not unusual for us to be quiet on this walk, and as we sit down next to
each other at the bench, I give him a faint smile.
He must sense something in my mood, though. After a few minutes, I’m aware of him peering at me, as if he’s looking for something in my face.
“What is it?” I say at last, since the silence is starting to feel uncomfortable.
“Is everything all right with you today?”
I give a little shrug. In some ways, it’s unsettling—that he seems to know me so well already. But, in other ways, it’s comforting. And the truth is, right now, I kind of want to tell him some of my thoughts.
“I’m just worried about Marjorie.”
“Is she okay? I didn’t see her yesterday.”
“She wasn’t feeling good and was in her bed all day. She has a bad heart. Did you know that?”
He shakes his head. “No. But it’s not uncommon around here. Everyone has a bad something.”
That’s undeniably true.
“So is it serious?” he asks. “With Marjorie?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s probably serious in the long run. The doctor came out and he said nothing major has changed so it was likely just a bad day.”
“Is that John Martin?”
“Yes. That’s her doctor. Is he your doctor too?”
“Yes. He’s good.”
“He seemed like he was really nice too. I liked him.”
Dave’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Did you?”
“Yes. He has a really kind, gentle manner and such a nice smile.”
“He seems to have made quite an impression on you, from one meeting.”
“He did. I really liked him.”
“What did he do to earn such favor with you?” There’s a strange note in his voice, one I can’t quite identify. In other circumstances, I would label it as jealous, but that’s not quite right. Not here, not with us.
“He didn’t do anything. He’s just one of the few people I liked immediately, on first meeting, without any hesitation. It doesn’t happen very often with me.”