Terminal House

by Sean Costello

  Now she closed her locker and the moment was gone, the girl striding away with quiet grace, her compact bottom shifting wondrously beneath her thin cotton dress. There was another moment as she passed one of those tall windows, a sunbeam transilluminating her dress, and he could see her legs silhouetted through the wash-faded fabric. Then she was gone, engulfed by the scurrying crowd—

  Something…

  Ben said, “What?” an animated shape coming into focus in front of him.

  “I said snap out of it, you dozy mutt.” It was Quinn, pointing down the footpath at Wilder, the man unlocking a greenhouse fifty yards away. Quinn saying, “You look like you saw a ghost,” pulling on his arm now, leading him away from the blissful place he’d just been.

  In Quinn’s bony grasp, Ben remembered lingering by the girl’s locker until the hallway cleared, dazzled by her beauty and the smile that had so thoroughly undone him. He’d made regular trips past her locker after that, hoping to repeat the experience, but his timing was always off. He’d drifted by her in the stairwells a few times, but the opportunity to speak to her never presented itself—and even if it had, he wasn’t sure he could’ve framed a sentence. It was Melanie who finally broke the ice, asking him to the Sadie Hawkins dance that November, sparking a love affair that would wax and wane for the next six years.

  Feeling that emptiness again, the withering sense that he’d missed the point, Ben followed Quinn to the greenhouse, the man still bitching about his ‘friends’ leaving him behind.

  * * *

  The atmosphere in here was thick and humid, and Ben felt his airways tighten with his first breath. He’d been asthmatic as a child, and just lately it seemed that long-absent affliction was trying to gain a fresh foothold. He’d have to bring it up the next time he saw his family doctor, see about getting an inhaler. If he remembered.

  Wilder was nowhere in sight, lost in the tidy rows of aeroponic pillars, all manner of fruits, vegetables, and herbs sprouting in lush profusion from the numerous pockets on each eight-foot tower. The system worked without soil, the exposed roots bathed in nutrients stored in a reservoir at the base of each pillar. And the harvest, staggered across twenty greenhouses, was virtually uninterrupted, the yield sizeable enough to provide year-round produce for the Center.

  They found Wilder partway up a stepladder at the far end of the structure, pruning buds off a ten-foot marijuana plant, one of about a dozen growing bold as you please in an earthen bed, a prominent label in Wilder’s blocky script identifying the plants as Acapulco Tea. Ben knew about the man’s clandestine horticultural activities, but clearly Quinn did not.

  Leaning in to sniff one of the distinctive leaf clusters, Quinn said, “Is this what I think it is?”

  Grinning down from his perch, Wilder said, “Indeed it is. And if you say word-one to anybody about this, Quinn, I will beat you to within an inch of your life.” Quinn snorted laughter and Wilder said, “You think I’m playing?” the grin vanishing.

  Quinn shook his head, knowing full well the man was not only capable of carrying out the threat, but had just enough of a mean streak to go through with it. He said, “No worries, man. I’m just surprised. I always assumed you were buying it somewhere.” He made a ‘my lips are sealed’ gesture and Wilder’s grin returned, lighting up those dark eyes.

  “Cannabis sativa, my fossilized friends,” Wilder said. “The finest daytime high on the planet. Uplifting, energizing,”—looking at Ben as he said it—“spacey as hell.” And to Quinn: “A sissy like you might even hallucinate on this particular herb.” He pointed at an adjacent greenhouse. “In number three over there we’ve got sativa’s kissing cousin, indica, your basic nighttime high. Soothing body buzz. Sleep like the dead on that bad boy. I make tea for the nuns out of the sativa, gets ’em giggling and hiking up their skirts.”

  Quinn said, “That’s a bad habit to get into,” and laughed all by himself.

  Coming down the ladder now, Wilder said, “The indica mellows out the Parkinsonians. They pay damn good money for it, too.”

  “Great,” Ben said, “I’m hanging out with a drug pusher now.”

  “The shit’s been legal for a decade,” Wilder said, holding one of the conical buds under his nose, eyelids drooping as he inhaled the exotic aroma. Then, with that evil grin: “And every now and again, I get paid with something far more interesting than money.”

  Quinn said, “Let me guess. Blue-rinser hippie chicks with Parkinson’s and no teeth.”

  Wilder laughed. “It’s a winning combination.”

  Ben said, “I’ve got to get out of this humidity,” and the men left the greenhouse, Wilder locking the door behind them.

  * * *

  They found a bench in the shade of a basswood and Wilder rolled a joint, saying, “It’s a little damp, but it’ll get the job done.” He lit up with a lime-green Bic, the glowing ember sparking as he inhaled a double lungful and closed his eyes, stifling a cough to keep the smoke in for as long as he could. As he passed the joint to Quinn, the Olympian toke jetted from his nostrils and Wilder laughed his hippie laugh, regarding them with merry eyes shot red from the assault on his lungs. Now Quinn took a hit, losing it quickly in a barking cough and earning a chastising string of profanities from Wilder.

  Eyes watering, Quinn took another quick pull, then held the joint out to Ben.

  “No thanks,” Ben said, raising his hands in a warding-off gesture. “I’d better pass.”

  Wilder said, “Too good to smoke with your friends?”

  “It’s not that, it’s—”

  “It’s what? What is it, Benji?”

  Quinn held the joint out again, and this time Ben took it, thinking, Why not? He hadn’t smoked-up since his twenties, having decided once he hit med school it was time to grow up. But it occurred to him now, with the force of revelation, that being a grownup hadn’t done him much good.

  He thought, Screw it.

  As he raised the spit-dampened joint to his lips, he glanced down the bench to see Wilder’s knowing grin, urging him on.

  Giggling, Quinn said, “Reefer madness.”

  Ben closed his eyes and inhaled, his airways instantly objecting, as they had in the muggy atmosphere of the greenhouse. But gradually, as he drew on the joint to the full capacity of his lungs, the urge to expel the smoke diminished, and now he could hear the other two cheering him on. When he opened his eyes, he saw Wilder’s big hand in his face, the man telling him not to Bogart the damn thing, and Ben handed it over, the sweet smoke bursting from his lungs on gales of stoned laughter.

  * * *

  Roxanne drew the curtain around her grandfather’s railed bed, one of four in this cramped, chronic-wing room. Then she sat in a chair by the radiator and took his hand, its limp chill making her shiver. As always, part of her hoped for some response: a slight flexion of his fingers, maybe, or a twitch of awareness in his vacant gaze. But, as always, there was none. He only stared into an emptiness that had already claimed everything but his body.

  She said, “Hi, Gramps, it’s me. I met a man at the anniversary celebration today. A retired doctor. He’s a resident here now, but he used to work for the Foundation. I told him about you, and he said I should base my decision on what I think you’d want. I’ve already thought about it. A lot.” The tears came now, hot on her cheeks, spilling onto their linked hands. “And I know you wouldn’t want to live like this…

  “Gram’s waiting for me to make up my mind…so I’ve decided to let her go ahead. I wish you could tell me if I’m doing the right thing—”

  Roxanne gasped and held her breath, focusing every brain cell on her hand now, reaching deep into nerve memory to determine whether the tiny stirring she’d just felt had come from her own tense muscles—or from her grandfather’s hand. A response of some kind? An affirmation?

  She said, “Gramps?” and rose to search his face, squeezing his hand now, hopeful. “Gramps?”

  But there was nothing.

  Deciding she�
�d imagined it, Roxanne said, “We’re meeting with a counselor in the morning. To sign the paperwork. So this one last time, Gramps, if you can—please—let me know if I’m doing the right thing.”

  A cloud pulled the light out of the room now, and Roxanne released her grandfather’s hand, the downy hairs on her arms standing straight up, an unbidden image piercing her psyche like a hot needle. She imagined the Reaper hovering over the bed like a vulture on a desert thermal…and in that moment, she understood that the man she’d known and loved had long-since abandoned this shell of a body.

  Dry-eyed now, she bent to kiss him on the forehead. Then she left his lonely deathbed for the last time. She did not look back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AN INSISTENT KNOCKING WOKE Ben Hunter from a dream that had plagued him during his three-year stint as an anesthesiologist. The dream had vanished shortly after he changed specialties, returning to the University of Ottawa at the age of thirty to study Geriatrics, and it surprised him vaguely that it had cropped up again now, after so many years.

  In the dream, he was doing an urgent case in the OR. He never knew what type of procedure it was, the sterile drape blocking his view, but he knew it was critical: blood bags under pressure; vital signs unstable. There was the stress of it, his own racing heartbeat loud in his ears, and now the surgeon saying, “Is he waking up?” just as the patient’s arm rose off the arm board. Ben tried to restrain it, but now the other arm angled up, snagging the screening drape, and Ben saw the man’s knees strike the instrument tray, tipping clamps and retractors onto the floor in a clatter intensified by the screams of the nurses—

  The knocking came again, more insistent this time, and Ben sat up, disoriented in his own day-lit room, startled to find himself fully dressed.

  Then he remembered smoking pot with the boys, and…

  But the rest was a blur, his skull feeling like it was filled with sludge now, sitting up like that bringing the feeling on.

  Jesus.

  That knocking again.

  The door. There’s someone at the door.

  Ben got to his feet, using the edge of the nightstand to steady himself. Raising his voice, he said, “Hold your horses,” and padded out to the door.

  It was Quinn.

  Yawning, Ben said, “What do you want?”

  Quinn bulled past him into the kitchen, saying, “Is that any way to speak to a friend?” He helped himself to a cider, popping the cap with a Simpsons bottle opener as he sank onto the couch in the living room. “What do I want? I want to know if you’re planning on wearing that wrinkled shit to the variety show in—” he set the opener on the coffee table and checked his watch “—forty-six minutes.” Still standing by the apartment door, Ben regarded him quizzically, and Quinn said, “The twenty-fifth anniversary celebration? The variety show? My goddamn standup comedy debut? Jesus, man, get the lead out.”

  Making himself at home, Quinn turned on the TV—already tuned to CNN, another violent immigrant crisis in Europe—and scanned to the Comedy Channel, saying, “Oh, look, Robin Williams. You know, after he died—Christ, fourteen years ago now?—it was months before I could watch him in anything without bawling like a ninny. Goddamn shame.” He looked at Ben, still standing by the door, and said, “Will you for Christ’s sake get ready?”

  * * *

  In addition to the usual amenities—billiard hall, tennis courts, golf simulators, exercise room—the rec center housed a spacious community hall reserved for concerts, weekly dances, and the variety shows the residents sometimes hosted for special occasions. Tonight’s program included a series of talent spots showcasing residents and staff, followed by a dance with live music provided by Relic, a house band made up of a rotating roster of residents. Ben played drums for them sometimes, but he wasn’t scheduled to perform tonight. He’d put himself through university playing in a bunch of different bands, and he enjoyed keeping up his skills. These days when he played, it was usually in a three-piece outfit modeled after the legendary power trios of the sixties: Hendrix, Cream, giants like that. The other two guys were former classmates from Hillcrest High: Bill Huggins on guitar and vocals, Roy Segree on bass. They only played the classics, and the old hippies ate it up.

  Wilder joined them now, sitting next to Ben at the round table Quinn had reserved near the stage.

  “Jesus, Wilder,” Quinn said, glancing at his watch. “Talk about cutting it close. I go on in three minutes.”

  Smelling of weed, Wilder said, “I’ve already heard all your dumb jokes, Quinn. I’m here for the girl group.”

  Quinn said, “Screw you, man, I’ve got all new dumb jokes,” then grabbed the program, saying, “Girl group?”

  Half-listening to his friends’ banter, Ben spotted Roxanne in her staff uniform, balancing a tray of hors d'oeuvres. His first instinct was to wave her over, but she looked busy and distracted and he decided against it.

  Glancing at the act currently onstage—a pair of eighty-plus jugglers, the taller one holding a handkerchief to his partner’s face now, the tenpin the man had just taken in the beak drawing an alarming amount of blood—Ben said, “Tough act to follow, Quinnsy. You know how these animals love blood sport.”

  Quinn told him to kiss his fragrant arse.

  Now the evening’s MC toddled up to the mic on a walker, glancing every few seconds at the humiliated jugglers, waiting until they left the stage before introducing Quinn. She got his name wrong, saying, “Next up we have Ed Quaid in his standup comedy debut,” and Quinn hopped to his feet saying, “Wish me luck.”

  Wilder said, “Break a dick,” as Quinn climbed onstage, taking over the mic amidst a polite chatter of applause.

  Grinning up there now, watching the MC stump her way into the curtains, Quinn said, “Let’s hear it for the bleeders—I mean the jugglers,” and actually got a laugh out of the sizeable crowd.

  As Quinn introduced himself, Wilder said, “Whatever possessed him to do standup? The man’s about as funny as a high colonic.”

  “Jesus, Wilder, give him a chance,” Ben said. “What the hell. We should be supporting him.”

  “Are you still high?”

  “About that. You said the stuff was uplifting, energizing—your exact words—and I woke up fully dressed on my bed this afternoon with Quinn banging on the front door. I can’t remember a thing after that second toke.”

  Wilder said, “On a good day you can’t even remember your name,” and grinned.

  Ben knew he hadn’t said it to be mean, but it stung just the same. Shrugging it off, he turned his attention to Quinn, a goofy look on the man’s face up there now as he launched into his first bit.

  “True story, folks. A love story, really. Old dude down the hall from me’s gotta be eighty-five, has a crush on this dame with Parkinson’s and no teeth.” He tipped a wink at Wilder. “He’s a shy geezer, but finally one night he screws up his courage and invites the lady over for dinner. Well, one thing leads to another, and before you know it they’re in the sack together.” A few doubting giggles from the crowd now, and Quinn said, “I kid you not. Anyway, afterward, the old guy’s not looking very happy, and his new honey says, ‘Wally, you don’t look very happy,’ and Wally says, ‘To be honest, Myrt, I feel kind of guilty.’ ‘Guilty?’ says Myrt. ‘Whatever for?’ And Wally says, ‘Well, if I’d known you were still a virgin, I’d’ve been more gentle.’ And Myrt says, ‘That’s okay, Wally, if I’d known you could still get a hard-on, I’d’ve taken off my pantyhose.’”

  For a long beat, dead silence from the crowd. Then the place erupted in laughter and applause and Quinn said, “Old Wally must’ve been wondering why her feet were going…” using his hands to pantomime Myrt’s feet flapping like the flippers on a seal. Even Wilder busted a gut, giving Quinn a series of bawdy hoots and shrill whistles.

  As Quinn took a bow, Ben was startled by a pair of warm hands covering his eyes. Now the hands were withdrawn and Roxanne leaned over his shoulder, hair smelling of jasmine, radiant smi
le warming his heart.

  She said, “Your friend is really funny.”

  “Funny looking,” Wilder said.

  Ben said, “Vince Wilder, this is Roxanne Austen.”

  Wilder shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Roxanne.”

  “You too, Mister Wilder.” Patting Ben’s shoulder now, she said, “I’ve only got a minute. Just wanted to come over and say hi.”

  Ben said, “I’m glad you did.”

  “I’m here again tomorrow,” she said, starting away. “Wanna join me for lunch?”

  Ben said, “Cafeteria food? Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Dial nine-oh-one-two on a lobby phone and I’ll come right down.”

  Roxanne repeated the number, then scooted away.

  Watching her go, Wilder said, “A bit young for you, don’t you think?”

  Ben glared at him, fists clenched. “Jesus Christ, Wilder, why do you have to smear everything in filth?”

  Startled, contrite, Wilder said, “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Red-faced, Ben apologized, startled himself at the vehemence of his reaction. He felt a dull pressure rising in his skull.

  Onstage, Quinn was just wrapping up another gag, something about a guy asking his wife why she never let him know when she was having an orgasm and the wife saying, “’Cause you’re never there.” Wilder snorted laughter, but the joke fell flat with the rest of the audience.

  Looking worried now, Quinn said, “So these two old dudes are alone in the common room playing checkers, and a pair of silver-haired dollies are loitering in the doorway, bitching about how bored they are. All of a sudden, one of them starts getting undressed, saying, ‘You know what? I’m gonna streak those two old codgers, see if I can’t get a rise out of ’em.’ So she does. Toddles right past them, naked as a jaybird. Well the one old lad looks up from the game and says, ‘Did you see that?’ and the other guy says, ‘Yeah. What the hell was she wearing?’ And the first guy says, ‘I dunno, but it sure needed ironing.’”