Late Fall

by Noelle Adams

  “We’re together.”

  My smile widens. “Is that what we are?”

  Smiling in response, he leans over and kisses me softly on the lips. “Yes. Together is what we are.”

  It’s so unexpected—to feel this way at my age, to have fallen for a man like this so late in my life, right when I was thinking that everything important was over. I’m still not sure how it’s even happened.

  And I’m also not sure how long it can possibly last.

  “I’d be happy to have lunch with him,” I say, speaking the truth. I’d like to get to know Dave’s stepson a little more, to find out if what I suspect is based in reality. “Will it just be him?”

  “Probably not. His brother and sisters are in town. They live in Virginia Beach, you know, but they’ve come for a visit.”

  “Oh my. It will be a big group.”

  “Is that okay?” He looks at my face closely.

  “Yes, it’s okay. I can’t promise to be charming, though.”

  He laughs. “I never would have expected you to be.”

  “Is that right?”

  He tightens his arm around me briefly in a kind of half hug. “I know you don’t like big groups. You can sit there without talking as far as I’m concerned. It’s mostly just going through the motions.”

  “You don’t like them? Your stepchildren, I mean?”

  He gives a slight shrug I feel rather than see. “They are what they are. Obviously, I didn’t choose them, but I’m not going to abandon them now. They’re the only family I have.”

  “Yes. Of course they are.” I feel bad for asking about it, since now he sounds rather glum. To change the subject, I add, “The van is scheduled to return here at noon tomorrow.” Eagle’s Rest is providing transportation for the residents who want to attend the craft fair, and we were planning to use the van since that’s the easiest way to get around. “We’ll have to change our plans.”

  “I’m sure Kevin or one of the others will bring us back,” Dave says. He sighs. “I wish I could drive, but they still won’t let me.”

  “They” in this context is the DMV, not his stepchildren. He told me last week that he has had a couple of episodes where he lost consciousness—one of them while he was driving. Legally, this means he can’t drive for a certain number of months. The incidents were evidently some neurological quirk, and they’re also the reason he moved from the independent-living cottage to the assisted-living building.

  It worries me—that something is wrong with him that they can’t quite identify. But he’s otherwise quite healthy, so I try not to brood about it.

  At our age, everyone has some kind of health issue.

  “I can drive,” I say, thinking of my car, which has been parked in the lot here but rarely used since I arrived. “That might be easier. We don’t have to take the van at all, and I can just drive us there and back.”

  I can tell Dave is frowning, even though I’m not looking at his face because he’s still holding me against his side. “You don’t have to.”

  I pull away, straightening up. “You’re not going to get all weird about it being me driving and not you, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why are you all tense and bristly?”

  He narrows his eyes. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You think I can’t tell? What’s the problem about me driving?”

  He sighs, evidently giving up on his resistance. “There’s no problem. It will be more convenient that way, so of course you can. It’s just that, in my day, the man did the driving.”

  I smile at him, feeling fond. “Your day is my day too, you know. It’s just that I’ve changed with the times.”

  “And I haven’t?”

  I reach out to stroke the side of his face, my fingers stroking back to his thinning hair. “Not in this, it seems like. I promise I won’t bring you flowers or open doors for you. How’s that?”

  He chuckles, his hand going up to cover mine on his face. “I can live with that.”

  Our plans for tomorrow are decided, and we relax back on the bench to enjoy a few more minutes of the morning before it’s time to return for breakfast.

  I’m glad he’s okay with my driving. I think it’s the right, most reasonable thing for him to do. But as I sit and think, I start to realize that he just gave up on his resistance, the way he often does.

  He told me straight out, not so long ago, that it’s not worth the effort to fight anymore.

  I don’t like that idea.

  Obviously, I don’t think one needs to fight over trivial issues or wrong-headed notions. But surely some things are worth fighting over. I wonder if Dave would be willing to fight for anything.

  I wonder if he would be willing to fight for me.

  The next day, I drive Dave into town—the same town where both of us once worked at the college. I know of a good parking lot that’s not known to a lot of the public, so we’re able to get a good parking spot that doesn’t require much walking.

  The craft booths are all set up along a few main streets in town, which are closed down for the weekend to accommodate the fair.

  Saturday morning is the best time to go, since it doesn’t get really crowded until the afternoon. So Dave and I have a good time strolling around, stopping to look at unique items, talk to the craftspeople, and get snacks like roasted oranges and funnel cakes.

  I enjoy myself, and Dave buys me three different strings of beads I admire and an adorable bouquet of wooden flowers. He would buy me more if I’d let him, but I don’t want to take advantage of his generosity.

  He seems to be enjoying himself too, and I grow aware of people watching us occasionally.

  This is what I’ve been discovering lately. If an older person is by herself, she often becomes invisible—just part of the background. But, if she’s part of a couple, they suddenly become “cute.”

  When Dave holds my hand as we walk, I see a variety of people looking in our direction and smiling, as if there’s something particularly adorable about such an innocent and commonplace gesture. And when he leans over to kiss me as I’m gushing over a collection of lovely crocheted purses, the woman who made them makes this expression that speaks as loud as words, saying, Aw, how sweet.

  It bothers me a little, even though I know all these people are well-intentioned and good-hearted. There’s something patronizing about these responses, as if normal human interaction somehow becomes something to be sighed over, like a kitten or a child.

  Just because we’re older.

  It makes me feel vulnerable in that way I’ve never liked to feel.

  I make myself push the idea out of my mind. After all, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks about me—or about Dave. Pretty soon, we’ll return to Eagle’s Rest, where being older is the norm and no one looks at us strangely.

  “Did you want one of those purses?” Dave asks, as we walk away.

  “Oh, no. They’re lovely, but that’s the last thing I need.”

  “If you like them, I’ll buy you one.” He starts to turn around as if he’s about to go back.

  “No, no.” I hold onto his arm so he can’t leave. “I don’t want you to buy me everything I happen to like.”

  He gives me a curious look. “Why not? I like to buy you things.”

  I can tell that’s true. He’s a man who’s had a lot of money for most of his life, and he’s probably gotten into the habit of buying things to express his affection.

  But I’ve been a woman who has always been self-sufficient, and I don’t like to accept a lot of gifts. They make me feel obligated, something I’ve never been comfortable with.

  Instead of telling him all this, I just say, “I don’t have room for a lot of stuff anymore. I love the beads and flowers you already bought me.”

  He smiles, evidently satisfied with this response. “Do you want to rest for a few minutes before we walk back to the car? There’s an empty bench there.”

  I nod
. We’ve been on our feet longer this morning than we normally are, and I at least am feeling it in my legs, back, and the hip that wasn’t replaced.

  My new hip doesn’t hurt at all.

  We have lunch at a French restaurant that’s opened just recently in town. The location is central, so we don’t have to repark the car, but the seating is cramped, the atmosphere is pretentious, and the menu is far too expensive for a small college town like this.

  I wish they’d chosen somewhere else for us to have lunch.

  I don’t complain, though. I’m just along for the ride, and I don’t want to make Dave feel bad. My impression of his stepchildren doesn’t improve from their choice of restaurant, however.

  I try to keep a good attitude. I shouldn’t be so judgmental. My first impressions aren’t always accurate, after all.

  They usually are.

  I sit next to Dave, with my back up against a wall in a way that doesn’t allow me to stretch my hip. This isn’t exactly comfortable, but Dave keeps looking over at me, as if to check to make sure I’m all right, so I maintain a pleasant smile, even when I just want to escape to my room and close the door on the rest of the world.

  The whole crew is here. Kevin. His brother, Rick, and his girlfriend, Maylene. His two sisters, Jenny and Tiffany. And Tiffany’s husband, Howie.

  Jenny and Tiffany are both well-dressed and overly nice, so much so that it feels fake to me. Rick doesn’t talk much, except to Maylene, and Kevin clearly sees himself as the ringleader of this circus.

  The service at the restaurant is very slow, so I’m ravenous after we’ve been seated for forty minutes and the food still hasn’t come. The bread is too dry for my taste, and they give only a small, hard pat of butter to go with it. I keep trying to eat pinches of it, but I hate dry bread without butter.

  “We were so thrilled when we heard Papa Dave had found himself a lady friend,” Tiffany is saying. She’s the kind of woman who fights off any sign of aging with all her might. I’m pretty sure she’s had cosmetic surgery already, although she’s just in her early forties.

  Papa Dave. A very annoying appellation, and one they evidently all used.

  I smile, since I’m supposed to, but what kind of answer am I supposed to give to such a statement?

  “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you, old man?” Kevin says, elbowing Dave. “Who would have thought?”

  Dave arches his eyebrows. “We’re not dead yet, you know.”

  “I’m just glad you didn’t get taken advantage of by some chick forty years younger than you.” That’s Tiffany again.

  Dave could find himself a much younger girlfriend. Quite easily, I’m sure. He’s in fairly good health for his age and is still attractive, maybe even to a woman younger than I am. He also has money, which is often the deciding factor.

  Sometimes I wonder why he hasn’t looked for a younger girlfriend like so many men in his position do. Then I tell myself to stop wondering, since that line of thought is fruitless.

  “Of course you’re not dead,” Kevin says, pounding on Dave’s back the way men sometimes do. Dave winces slightly, as if he doesn’t appreciate the pounding. “You’re doing great for your age.”

  “And what’s this I hear about you winning the community tennis match?” Tiffany again.

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. Dave hasn’t won a tennis match since I’ve been living at Eagle’s Rest.

  “That was three months ago,” Dave says, with another lift of his eyebrows.

  And on and on it goes, in much the same fashion. They talk to him like he’s deaf and a little soft in the head, like a puppy who has performed unexpectedly well.

  I shouldn’t be so harsh with them. They’re not acting all that different from the way a lot of people interact with those our age. But still … they drive me crazy, and I’m hard-pressed to keep listening to it without rolling my eyes and making faces.

  At one point, Dave looks over at me while I’m pinching off another bite of bread, hoping to stave off my starvation.

  Without saying anything, he takes his knife and moves his pat of butter, which he’s left mostly untouched, over to my plate.

  I smile at him, since this is very sweet and much appreciated.

  I glance up and catch a surprisingly calculating look from Jenny. I don’t know for sure what she’s thinking, but I can make a pretty good guess. She thinks I’m making a play for Dave and might threaten her inheritance.

  They probably all feel the same way. They don’t want Dave to hook up with anyone. They want to ensure they’re the only ones he’ll be leaving his money to.

  I don’t want Dave’s money, and I’m quite sure he knows that. There’s no reason to think he’ll die before me anyway. He’s only a few years older than me, after all.

  The food finally arrives, and, while it’s lukewarm and rather strange, at least it’s edible. It also gives everyone something other to do than make annoying comments at Dave.

  The second half of lunch is dominated by Tiffany and Jenny’s plans for a Caribbean spa vacation and Kevin’s complaints about how his car has so many problems he needs a new one.

  Neither of these topics is of interest to me. Both of the topics seem to lead toward a variety of hints for Dave to help out in a monetary fashion.

  At one point, I’m so exasperated, I’m on the verge of saying that, in my day, we didn’t take vacations or buy cars we couldn’t afford. That’s not entirely true, but it’s certainly truer than it is of people now.

  But I glance over at Dave and see that he’s looking rather stretched, like he’s ready for the lunch to end, and I bite my tongue.

  I don’t want to make things awkward for Dave by getting on the wrong side of his stepchildren. I’m probably already on the wrong side, simply by virtue of the fact that I’m dating him, but there’s no sense in making it worse.

  Some people, as they age, have fewer and fewer inhibitions about the things that come out of their mouths. I’m the opposite. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself thinking through my words more carefully.

  The pleasure one feels at saying what one thinks can be nice. But it’s rarely worth the negative consequences.

  The lunch finally ends, and they all line up to give Dave hugs or kisses. They try to kiss me too, but I stick my hand out at them instead, so they shake my hand, one after the other, like an awkward receiving line at a wedding.

  “Do you need any help getting home?” Kevin asks, as we’re leaving the restaurant.

  “No.” Dave has gotten curter as the lunch has gone on, and he’s now in that grumpy state where he just grunts out responses.

  He’s been like that with me several times, but today I find the attitude completely understandable.

  “Are you sure?” Tiffany asks. I notice that her makeup has little cracks around the eyes, and I find this detail unreasonably unattractive. “We’ll be happy to make sure you get back safely.”

  “No,” Dave says again.

  “I drove my car,” I say, trying to smooth over this interaction so we can get the heck out of here. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, wonderful! How nice that you still drive!”

  I manage not to roll my eyes at Tiffany, and then we’re finally, finally out of the building and parting ways with the others.

  I take Dave’s arm as we walk to the car and don’t say anything. He’s obviously not in the mood to talk, so I just let him know I’m here—in the hope that my presence might help him feel better.

  He doesn’t talk on the way to the car, and he doesn’t talk on the drive back up to Eagle’s Rest. In fact, we’re getting out of the car and starting back to our building before he finally responds in any way.

  He reaches over and pulls me toward him, pressing a soft kiss on my temple.

  I look up at his face. “What’s that for?”

  He gives a tired smile. “That’s for putting up with lunch with that pack of wolves.”

  Evidently, he has the same though
ts about them that I do. It’s vaguely comforting, since it means I probably didn’t make it up out of my own judgmental spirit.

  Believe it or not, that’s happened a time or two.

  “Maybe they’re not really that bad,” I say. I put my hand on his side and really like the feel of his solid flesh beneath his shirt. He’s not perfectly lean and hard, the way he was in his forties, when I knew him before. (Not that I ever touched him back then, but, still, a woman can tell.) It doesn’t matter that he’s soft around his middle and a little bony higher up, toward his ribs. I like the feel of it. He feels like a man. And it’s nice to touch them sometimes.

  “Do you think so?” The irony is obvious in the dryness of his voice.

  “Well, if you can tell what they’re really like, then why do you put up with them?”

  He frowns. “I told you before. They’re the only family I have.”

  “I guess so, but it’s a lot to put up with, just to have a family connection.” I’m not entirely sure I should be saying this. My pulse has picked up with anxiety, the sign that I might be saying too much.

  He gives that shrug I’ve seen from him a lot of times, the gesture where he’s resigning himself to the world. “What other choice do I have?”

  “Well, you could just not spend much time with them. You could not let them take advantage of you.”

  “They don’t take advantage of me. I know what they’re like.” He looks a little offended now, as I’ve evidently bruised his ego.

  He used to be a powerful man, in control of circumstances and the people in his orbit. That’s not the case anymore, and it must be hard for him sometimes to come to terms with it.

  I probably shouldn’t have reminded him.

  “I know you do. I’m sure it’s all fine.” I reach up so my hand is spanning the back of his neck. “It would just be nice if they loved you.”

  He gives that shrug again and doesn’t say anything, but he’s holding my gaze, like he understands what I’m trying to express.

  Wanting to be encouraging, I add, “Maybe they do, in their own way.”

  He shakes his head. “Clara loved me.”

  And that’s just heartbreaking—that he had a child once who loved him the way he needs to be loved, the way he deserves to be loved, and then he lost her.