Terminal House

by Sean Costello

  “My place. I’m cooking.”

  “Oh, my. You can cook?”

  She gave him a playful swat. “Of course I can cook.”

  “What, like those little oatmeal packets? Add water and pop ’em in the microwave?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m talking about good old-fashioned cholesterol here, Doctor Hunter. Thickly-sliced back bacon with those globs of yellow fat around the edges. Eggs over-ugly cooked in bacon grease. Home fries oozing butter. All the essential food groups.”

  “Yum. Can’t wait.”

  “And don’t worry, I know CPR.”

  Ben said, “You’d better,” and turned to face her. “So tell me, Roxie. Who is it you want me to meet?”

  Roxanne only smiled.

  * * *

  She was sitting in a wicker rocker on the front porch, reading a paperback novel. A thick one, Ben noticed as they pulled into the driveway, the pages yellowed with age and loving hands. She wore glasses with polarized lenses that hid her eyes, and she didn’t look up when the car pulled into the driveway. Her hair was long and snow-white, gathered in a bun on the crown of her head. A knitted shawl covered her shoulders against the morning chill, and she was rocking, a slow, soothing rhythm, one bent finger pulling her gaze across the pages of her book.

  When Roxanne killed the engine, Ben said, “Looks like she’s really into that novel. That or she’s stone-deaf and didn’t hear us drive up.”

  Roxanne chuckled. “Gram says she can hear a mosquito fart at twenty paces. And considering the number of times she’s caught me red-handed trying to sneak in after curfew, I’m inclined to agree with her.”

  “What’s that she’s reading?”

  “Fellowship of the Ring. She’s had that copy since her teens. She must’ve read it a dozen times. The rest of the trilogy, too. She can quote it chapter and verse.”

  Ben thought, Tolkien, a tenuous connection lurking just out of reach. Tell your story walking, Mister.

  Opening her door now, Roxanne said, “Ready to meet her?”

  Ben said, “Sure,” and climbed out of the car.

  They were partway up the steps when the connection popped like a road flare in his mind. And even before the woman in the rocker slid the glasses down on her nose and fixed him with those cornflower eyes, he knew who she was.

  And in a heartbeat, it all made sense.

  He said, “Hello, Melanie.”

  It took her a moment longer, craning her neck to squint at him with the sun at his back, and he knew Roxanne hadn’t told her who was coming for breakfast.

  In the breathless silence that followed, as this exquisitely aged version of the girl he’d loved so long ago made the same connection, Ben felt his heart bolt like the startled squirrel he’d seen with Roxanne that first day by the solar array. Felt the same delicious apprehension he’d experienced sixty years ago on the night of the Sadie Hawkins dance, when he rang the doorbell on a porch just a few blocks from here and the girl who’d stolen his heart with a glance appeared in the doorway, flashing a smile that undid him.

  Now Melanie’s eyes widened, and she gave him a tentative version of that smile, some of the sparkle gone from it now, faded by the passage of time. She said, “Benjamin Hunter,” and rose with an ease that both pleased and surprised him.

  Bugging her eyes at him, Roxanne mouthed the word Benjamin? and stifled a giggle. Her grandmother saw her and shot her a scolding glance. Then she opened her arms, saying, “Come here, Ben, and give this old broad a hug.”

  Ben stepped into an embrace that felt like home. After a moment, he said, “She didn’t tell you it was me, did she,” and gave Roxanne a little stinkeye of his own.

  Roxanne was standing behind Gram now, a sappy grin on her face, and when Gram said, “Is she still here?” Roxanne opened the door and hustled inside. Laughing, she said, “I’m going to make breakfast now,” and swung the door shut.

  Backing out of the embrace, Melanie said, “My, God, Ben, it’s good to see you. How long has it been?”

  “Too long,” Ben said, laughing when the curtain twitched and Roxanne’s expectant face appeared in the gap. Melanie saw him looking and turned, saying, “That little…” But Roxanne was already gone.

  Melanie laughed now too, the throaty, unbridled sound of it lofting him back across an eroded landscape of time. She said, “That child,” in mock exasperation, then sat in her rocker, inviting Ben to do the same in the matching chair. For a moment he pictured her husband sitting there, then he sat too, legs threatening to fail him in the excitement of this unexpected reunion.

  He said, “She’s a wonderful girl, your granddaughter.”

  “She certainly is. And she thinks the world of you, Ben. Since her grandfather passed, you’ve helped fill a very big hole in her life.” She patted his hand. “She’s told me a lot about you. Everything but your name. She calls you ‘The Doc’.”

  “Said a lot about me, huh? Some of it good, I hope.”

  Melanie winked. “A little under half.”

  “Better than I expected.” He pointed at the book in her lap. “Still a Tolkien fan, I see.”

  “I learn something new every time I read him. Didn’t I give you the trilogy for your birthday one time?”

  “Christmas. Nineteen-seventy. I still have it.”

  “But did you read it?”

  Ben gave her a guilty shrug, saying, “Never had much time for fiction,” and Melanie’s warm smile faltered. She said, “Or anything else,” and he knew he’d touched a nerve.

  “Mel, I—”

  “No, Ben, I’m sorry. That was unfair. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since those days. We were young and our paths just…diverged. It happens.” She stood now and took his hand, helping him to his feet. “Come on,” she said, “I smell bacon frying.”

  * * *

  Melanie enjoyed having a man at the table again, and she loved seeing Roxanne so happy, the two of them constantly joking. She’d spent a lot of time worrying about Roxanne when she was growing up, fearful the child was getting shortchanged being raised by her grandparents instead of her parents. And you could see the effects the age difference had had on her: in the conservative, almost prim way she dressed; in the sometimes dated way she spoke; and even more so in her values. Not that there was anything wrong with the way she’d turned out. Quite the opposite. Roxanne had a sharp, inquisitive mind, and had always managed to make the best of both worlds, excelling at the academia and breaking hearts with her drop-dead-gorgeous good looks. If there was a problem at all, it was that Roxanne had trouble identifying with her peers, particularly the girls: the sullen, entitled, texting, media-zombified girls that drifted in and out of her life like painted ghosts. As a consequence, she ended up befriending people much older than herself. Except for Russ, Melanie thought. I do like Russ. Her upbringing had even affected her choice of employment. When she’d come home with the news she’d be spending her year off working at the Geriatric Center, it had come as little surprise to Melanie. And she was constantly hearing from friends who were residents there now about how wonderful her granddaughter was. She couldn’t be more proud.

  As for Ben—Mel watching him across the table now, the man doing a passable impersonation of Porky Pig and tipping Roxanne into gales of laughter—she could still feel the unexpected pleasure seeing him again had sparked in her, and the attendant upwelling of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, it was great reuniting with someone who’d occupied such a significant part of her youth; they’d been virgins together, for God’s sake. But on the other, seeing him again had uncapped a well of heartache and regret she’d sealed shut decades ago—and it had done so in a nanosecond. She’d hugged him, yes, mostly for Roxanne’s benefit. But what she’d really wanted was to kiss him the way she had all those years ago—deeply, passionately—lose herself in the glorious tenderness of it. And then punch him in the face.

  Watching him now, a part of her felt these were awfully racy thoughts for an old woman to be havi
ng. But in truth, only her body had aged. The rest of her—the her of her—was just as wanton and alive as that long-ago girl had been. Yet somehow, those parts had lapsed into dormancy, stirred at intervals by a silly romantic comedy, maybe, or the kind of dream from which one awakens moist in places long neglected…but for the most part forgotten.

  Her relationship with her husband had been different. Theirs had been more of an intimate companionship, a mutual coming-together born of affection and common goals. He had wanted children, but a severe case of endometriosis had left her barren. Years later, after losing her only child to cancer, she’d been secretly relieved she hadn’t been able to have more kids. Having more would have meant she might have lost them too, and that was something she couldn’t bear. Not ever again.

  The one great blessing from all of it was Roxanne.

  * * *

  The morning passed quickly, almost noon before Roxanne suggested the ‘old folks’ head back to the porch while she cleaned up the kitchen.

  But Melanie decided she’d had enough for one day, and said she felt a migraine coming on. She told Ben how much she’d enjoyed seeing him again, then made her way up to her room.

  In curtained sunlight, she dug a stack of old diaries out of the closet and sat in a rocker by the window, opening the volume labeled The Benjamin Years in the cursive script of her youth. She laughed when she saw the tiny red hearts she’d dotted her i’s with in those days. She’d been sixteen that first year, and Ben had come into her life with all the force of a feather on a dead calm day. God, but he’d been shy.

  She read until she heard them leave—at breakfast Roxanne had said she was driving Ben to a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, but hadn’t elaborated—then put the diaries aside. She went into the ensuite to scrub away the tears that had dried to silvery crusts on her face, the ones from her laughter mixed indistinguishably with those born of sadness, then decided to lie down after all. There was an ache behind her eyes now, not a full-blown migraine, but bad enough to knock the stuffing out of her for a while.

  She knew she’d be seeing Ben Hunter again. She’d seen it not only in his eyes, but also in Roxanne’s. And while she was okay with that, she’d already drawn a line in the sand. If he wanted to be friends, that was fine. He was important to Roxanne, and her happiness meant more to Melanie than her own. But it could never be anything more than that. Most of her reasons were etched in the time-faded diaries of a teenage girl.

  But her main reason was much darker.

  There was something wrong with Ben Hunter. And she was almost certain she knew what it was.

  * * *

  Roxanne said, “What are you thinking about?”

  They were sitting in the ER patient lounge, waiting for Ben’s appointment with Dr. Skeen. On the drive over, they’d stopped by Ben’s apartment to pick up one of the blister packs his colleague Jake had sent. Quinn had left the parcel on the kitchen counter with a note that said, Good luck, you crusty old bastard!

  It was ten minutes to three.

  Ben said, “I was thinking about you, actually.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “You and a term my grandfather used to use.”

  “What was that?”

  “Greasy.”

  Roxanne poked him in the ribs. “Is that some kind of slur on my cooking?”

  “Not at all. Breakfast was delicious.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  He said, “I suppose I am,” and she poked him again.

  “So what made you think of it?”

  “Think of what?”

  “Greasy.”

  “If a person did something Grump thought was sneaky, he’d say it was ‘greasy’. We called him Grump because he always looked angry, but he was the sweetest man I ever—”

  Roxanne gave him an exasperated look. “So what did I do that was greasy?”

  “Not telling your grandmother who was coming for breakfast.” He laughed at her Who me? expression, saying, “And don’t give me that innocent look. You knew about her and I, didn’t you.”

  Roxanne only smiled.

  Ben was about to ask how she’d found out when the obvious answer struck him. He said, “Your grandmother told you, right? You did tell her my name and she put it together from there. And she just faked being surprised to see me.”

  “No, actually. Until the past little while, I barely mentioned you at all. Just the once, I think, right after we met, and all I told her then was I’d met a retired doctor who helped me decide about Gramps.” She directed her gaze at the floor now, cheeks flushing pink. “You and I got close so fast, Ben, I didn’t want her thinking, you know, I’d replaced Gramps with someone else.”

  “I understand. I really do. But that doesn’t answer my question. How did you find out about your grandmother and I?”

  Roxanne met his gaze now and he could see the mischief in her eyes.

  She said, “Ely.”

  “Ely? But how…?”

  “She found a portrait of you and Gram she’d drawn when you were teenagers. A beautiful pastel.” Grinning now, she said, “You were quite the hunk, Benjamin Hunter. All dark and brooding.”

  Laughing, Ben said, “Remind me to show you the slides from my GQ photo shoot,” and a nurse called his name.

  * * *

  The nurse led them to a treatment room at the end of a cluttered corridor, elderly patients in open stalls watching hollow-eyed as the trio filed past in slow procession. Dr. Skeen was already in the room, arranging ampoules on a trolley table. Ben introduced Roxanne to the doctor and asked if she could remain in the room. Skeen said it was fine, but told Roxanne if Ben showed even the slightest sign of an allergic reaction, she’d have to return to the lounge.

  Roxanne sat in a chair while the doctor helped Ben into a sitting position on a paper-sheeted examining table.

  Now Skeen said, “So let’s see this stuff.”

  Ben handed over the six-capsule blister pack he’d taken from the box of fifty Jake had sent.

  Holding it up for Roxanne to see, Skeen said, “Doesn’t look like much, does it, Roxanne. But your wise old friend here has helped improve the lives of millions of dementia sufferers with this little miracle.” He gave the pack a shake. It sounded like a maraca. “And now it’s his turn to benefit.”

  Flushed, embarrassed by the praise and Roxanne’s admiring gaze, Ben said, “Well, best not get ahead of ourselves, Trevor. The original formulation almost put me in the ground.”

  Skeen returned the blister pack to Ben, saying, “When I spoke with your colleague, he seemed confident you’d be fine.” He indicated the trolley table. “And we’re ready for anything here.”

  Nodding, Ben popped one of the soft-gels into his palm. Skeen filled a paper cup with tap water and handed it to him. Ben said, “Moment of truth,” and tossed the blue-and-white capsule into his mouth, chasing it with a slug of water. He returned the cup to Skeen and lay back on the examining table, the paper sheet crinkling under his weight.

  Roxanne pulled her chair closer and held Ben’s hand.

  Skeen said, “About how long did it take you to react last time?”

  Ben said, “I don’t remember much about that day, but I was told I was seizing in under a minute.”

  The doctor glanced at his watch. “Okay. Let’s see what happens.”

  The room lapsed into anticipatory silence.

  Ben counted to a hundred in his head—then ran his tongue out the corner of his mouth and began to shimmy and shake like a man possessed. Roxanne sprang to her feet in alarm, saying, “Doctor Skeen,” and Ben watched the man roll his eyes and smirk. Unable to help himself, Ben laughed out loud.

  Jerking her hand away, Roxanne said, “That wasn’t funny.”

  But Skeen was laughing now too, dabbing his eyes with a square of gauze. He said, “It was pretty funny,” and Roxanne broke into a fit of nervous giggles.

  When things settled—Ben up on his elbow now, looking healthy as a horse
—Skeen checked his watch again. “Three minutes down, twenty-seven to go.” He opened the examining room door. “I’ll be right down the hall. And Roxanne, if your friend starts convulsing again, just douse him with a pail of cold water.”

  Roxanne said, “With pleasure,” and gave Ben’s neck a goosey pinch.

  * * *

  Ben suffered no more reaction to the capsule than a wet burp that tasted like bacon. Skeen gave him a clean bill of health, Roxanne walked him back to his apartment, and Ben called Jake to give him the good news. Ben agreed to keep a written diary of his progress and signed off, as exhilarated as he’d ever been.

  He watched TV for a while, but couldn’t concentrate. Seeing Melanie again had filled his heart with gladness and hope. She was single now, mature enough to have mourned her husband months ago. And when she hugged him on the porch, there’d been a moment so familiar and so smoldering hot, he’d been sure she was going to kiss him full on the mouth—but then a few seconds later, when she backed out of the embrace, he’d been equally certain she was going to punch him in the face.

  Mixed feelings. The best kind. He smiled and headed for the kitchen.

  It was almost time for his second dose of the isomer.

  * * *

  Ben had just stripped down to his boxers that night when a faint knock came at the apartment door. It was Ray, fishbelly white, rail-thin in his wash-faded T-shirt and jeans. Breathing hard, he said, “Hey, buddy. It’s time.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  BEN WAS SHOCKED BY his friend’s appearance. He’d seen end-stage disease many times in his medical practice, but it was a much tougher thing to witness in someone you loved. Ray’s body was cannibalizing itself, and Ben could see he was on his last legs.

  He said, “Okay, yes. If you’re ready, I’m ready,” and started out the door.

  Ray managed a feeble laugh. “This is what you’re wearing to my big send off?”

  Ben glanced in the mirror, seeing nothing on his bony frame but blue-check boxers. He said, “Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, man. Come in.” Ray stepped in and Ben said, “Grab a beer if you like. Take the edge off.”