by Kaden, John
He smiled down at the picture, admiring his wife’s pretty face, her unassuming elegance. She had the sweetest little nose, rounded and petite, and Milton loved to give her quick smooches on the tip of it. It always brought a little blush to her cheeks, and that was a beautiful thing to behold. That’s what he would do the second she walked through the door, he decided: give her a little kiss on the tip of her nose. He was about to place the picture back on the end table when he noticed something sticking to the back of the frame — a piece of masking tape with writing on it. He turned the frame over and read:
THIS IS YOUR WIFE JUNE
SHE DIED ON MARCH 27, 2009
YOU LOVED HER VERY MUCH
He stared at the writing for several long minutes, then finally, in a very soft voice, he said, “Oh.”
VI
He was still sitting on the sofa with the box and the framed picture in his lap when Jason knocked on his door a little before noon. Milton looked up drearily and willed himself to move. His limbs were still heavy with grief; the incident earlier had been like losing June all over again. It was the unbearable cruelty of the slipping mind — sometimes it brought the happy moments from your past back to life right before your eyes, only to rip them away from you a moment later.
He shuffled across the living room and opened the door, then turned wordlessly and shuffled right back to his spot on the couch.
Jason’s cheerful demeanor melted away as he stepped inside and shut the door. The heaviness in the apartment was unmistakable. “Rough day?” he asked.
Milton nodded.
Jason didn’t press him any further; he knew better. Sometimes it was best to just sit with a patient and let them know you’re there for them, and that’s exactly what he did. He settled onto the sofa next to Milton and placed a warm hand on his shoulder, then let it slip away.
“I thought she was coming home,” Milton said, staring straight ahead, straight at the door.
“June?”
“Yes. June.” Milton’s face twisted up, and he made a brave but unsuccessful show of fighting off the tears. “I can still feel her, Jason. A part of me knows it’s just the memory thing, but it’s just… it feels so real.”
“I’m sorry, buddy. I really am.”
Milton rubbed the sides of the cigar box like a worry stone, drawing some kind of strange fortitude from it. “I’m getting worse,” he said dryly. “Less good days and more bad ones all the time. And the good days aren’t so good anymore. Those are the days when I know what is happening to me. I know it won’t get better.”
It was true; sometimes, and Milton hated to think this way, but sometimes the fog was better.
Jason offered nothing; he simply sat with his hands folded in his lap and waited for him to continue.
After a few labored breaths, Milton spoke again: “Some days I forget her, and some days I think she’s still alive. It’s like somebody’s screwing with me, playing some kind of trick with my head. Is that normal? Is it always like this? Is it this goddamn cruel for everybody?”
Jason pressed his lips together, looking like a politician about to answer a question about a hot button issue. “There really isn’t any normal here, Milton. It’s different for everybody. Some of your experiences are a bit… outside the ordinary, I guess. As far as memory loss goes, you’re kind of all over the map. But, like I said: there is no normal. Different people are affected in different ways. Nobody’s playing any sinister games with you, though. Trust me, everybody who goes through this feels like they’re sailing uncharted waters, and in a lot of ways, they are.”
Milton gave a grunt of understanding and glanced down at the grinning fisherman on the box cover.
“You remind me of Billy Pilgrim,” Jason said.
“That another one of your patients?”
Jason allowed himself a quick smirk. “No, he’s a character in a book. Slaughterhouse Five. He comes unstuck in time. Everyday he wakes up in a different period of his life. Sometimes he’s a young soldier fighting in World War II, and some days he’s an old man, and he has no idea what kind of day it’ll be until he opens his eyes to find out.”
Milton nodded tightly. “Sounds like a terrible affliction.”
“I suppose so.”
That was all they spoke of it. Milton dropped the subject, and Jason let him. They batted around some small talk for the next hour — baseball and weather — then Jason watched Milton take his medication and finally said his farewells, with a parting wish for Milton to “get to feeling better” as he walked out the door. Milton was almost sorry to see him go; the company was nice, and today wasn’t a good day to be alone.
It wasn’t until well after Jason’s departure that Milton wandered into the kitchen and noticed the note again: Tropical Paradise Awaits — ask Jason to web search it.
He had a vague recollection of having written it, but the memory was like a loose coin clinking around inside a spinning clothes dryer, tumbling from place to place and refusing to stay put. Images of hula girls and red bow-ties and glittering musical notes flashed through his mind in a rapid-fire montage and—
—of course: The box.
He’d been holding it all morning, blissfully unaware of the tight grip it had on him. All at once, the remaining wisps of fog broke apart and he remembered the night before clearly: huddled over the kitchen table, pouring over the box and the trinkets while the storm rumbled outside. He’d left the note as a reminder. A lot of good it did.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
Milton had never owned a computer — they were for the younger crowd — so he figured he’d have to wait another full day for Jason to come back around before he got any answers. Just as well; it was probably nothing but a wild goose chase anyway.
He left the scratch paper on the table, then cracked open the fridge and rummaged around for the cold cuts, intent on making himself a sandwich and then going outside for some fresh air.
Curiosity is a funny bug, though — it kept itching at his brain, dragging his eyes back to the scribbled note on the kitchen table.
He had Jason’s phone number. He could just give him a call and ask him to look up the phrase, but that might risk setting off Jason’s warning bells. It was, after all, a fairly unusual request.
No. He wouldn’t call Jason.
He had a better idea (or a worse one, depending on how you looked at it). There was someone much closer than Jason who had a computer, and Milton strangely remembered this part very well, because the person in question bragged about his proficiency at online dating just about every chance he got. It was someone who lived right down the hall, just a few footsteps away.
VII
Ralph answered the door wearing nothing but silk boxers and a maroon bathrobe. Milton was not surprised to see that the straggly hairs on his chest were every bit as ghost-white as the wispy pompadour he sported.
“Milty! Come on in.” Ralph swept his arm grandly around the apartment, which looked more like it belonged to a college party animal than a sixty-something-year-old man. Crumpled beer cans and dirty laundry littered the floor. A large Anheiser-Busch decorative mirror (that had clearly been pilfered from some ratty truck stop bar) hung above the sofa like a sad parody. “Welcome to the palace, boss.”
“Thanks.”
“You look like shit, Milt. You having one of your fuzzy days?”
“Kind of.”
“Well, in that case: I’m your long lost son, Dad. You owe me a million bucks!” Ralph then proceeded to belt out a crass, almost maniacal laugh.
Milton patted the air with his hands and said, “Not that bad, Ralph. Jesus Cripes. Just a little out of sorts, is all.”
Ralph calmed his laughter and said, “Bad taste. Sorry. You okay, man? What brings you?”
Milton glanced around at the trash heap that Ralph called home and said, “You’re good with computers, aren’t you?”
“Ah. I see what this is about.” Ralph tapped his temple. “Feeling a little lone
ly? Craving some action? Ready to meet some silver-haired beauties on the Sunset Express?”
“No, uh, not really. I just—”
“Check this out,” Ralph said, moving over to a cramped desk in the corner that housed a worn-looking Dell computer. He jiggled the mouse and the screen lit up, displaying images of a scantily dressed, gray-haired old woman. She looked like somebody’s grandmother, except for the lace teddy she wore. Ralph tapped the screen and said, “My latest exploit. I know she doesn’t look it, but she can suck the chrome off a—”
“Ralph!”
“Sorry, sorry. I got nudies of her, by the way.”
“Nudies?”
“You wanna see ‘em?”
“No. I don’t. That… that isn’t why I’m here,” Milton said, clearly exasperated. He was beginning to have second thoughts about coming over. Ralph was like a puppy with too many toys to play with; he couldn’t stay focused for too long. Also, something about that scandalous old woman on the computer screen made Milton’s heart feel sad. He only had room for one woman in his life, and that woman had died five years ago, on March 27, 2009, according to the picture frame in the living room. He was in no need of a replacement.
Ralph looked sorely dejected, but he X’ed out the screen and turned to Milton. “Your loss, boss.”
Milton fished the scratch paper out of his pocket. “I actually had a little favor to ask. Wondered if you could check up on something for me?”
Ralph snatched the paper out of his hands. “What is this, your Christmas list?”
“It’s… well, actually, I’m not entirely sure what it is. I was hoping you could help me remember.” Milton reached across and drew his finger around the circled phrase. “Any idea what this means?”
Ralph held the paper at arm’s length and squinted his eyes. “Tropical… paradise… awaits…” he read. “Sounds like a slogan for some shitty timeshare.”
“Can we look it up and see?”
“Sure.” Ralph settled into the swivel chair and worked his fingers on the keyboard and hit ENTER. “There. Told ya. Bunch of shitty timeshares. Key Largo. Guam. You looking to take a vacation, Milty?”
“I’m not sure,” he said absently. “Is that all there is? Nothing else?”
Ralph scrolled through the page. “Hell, it all looks the same. I take it this ain’t what you were looking for?”
“It’s a place of some kind, I’m almost sure of it. It’s somewhere that I’ve been, and I just can’t remember.”
“I gotcha. Trying to clear the old cobwebs, huh?”
“Exactly. You were up and down the coast a lot back in the day — have you ever seen anyplace that might fit the bill?”
Ralph shrugged. “Tropical paradise? This is Florida, Milty. It could be any one of a thousand places around here.”
Milton slumped his shoulders. “I guess you’re right.”
“Hey, don’t look so down,” Ralph said, handing back the paper. “You’ve gotta stop living in the past, my man. You’re missing the party.”
Milton shook his head and said, “I’m too old for the kind of partying you do.”
“Bull, you’re barely older than me. And trust me, the little blue pill works wonders. Just ask CatLady1947.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“They don’t call these the golden years for nothing. Plenty of ladies, Milt, ripe for the picking. Ripe.”
“Not interested.”
Ralph narrowed his eyes and leveled them on Milton. “Sure you are, bucko. I got a feeling for these things, you know, and you are clearly a man who needs to dip his wick in something nice, am I right?”
“Excuse me, but I have a wife,” Milton said abruptly. He held up his left hand and waved his wedding band in front of Ralph’s face. “She may be gone, and I may not always remember her the way I want to, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still love her, you understand? And I’m not looking to go alley catting around like a goddamn teenager again, you hear me? It would be disrespectful.”
Ralph looked taken aback, but only for a second. “Disrespectful?” he said, cocking his head to the side. “Since when do you care about that?”
Milton chuffed.
“I mean, you weren’t faithful to her when she was alive, why the hell should it matter now that she’s dead? It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, it ain’t cheating if she’s dead, right?”
“Watch yourself,” Milton said, the hint of a threat in his voice. “June was everything to me.”
Ralph just looked at him for a moment or two, then a morbid look of understanding fell over his face. “You really don’t remember that night, do you? Shit, your brain’s more blasted than I thought.”
Milton froze. That feeling crept in again, that feeling that was like showing up to class without realizing it was final exam day. The hair on his arms spiked out in an icy rush and a shiver of gooseflesh rippled his skin. His throat turned all thick and papery and he said, “Wha… what… don’t I remember?”
Ralph’s eyes twinkled, and a grin that looked almost sadistic unzippered itself across his face. “That night… we sat on the balcony down the hall… with a bottle of Jim Beam…” he said, speaking with a deliberate, taunting slowness. “You got drunk off your ass and went on and on about some chick named Donna you used to screw behind June’s back, way back in the seventies.”
Milton gave his head a quick shake, almost a shudder, and said, “Liar. You’re a damn liar.”
“You sure about that? I’ve known a lot of guys like you in my day — traveling salesman types — and the one thing they all had in common was a taste for road pussy.”
“Shut your goddamn mouth.”
“Ooh, touchy,” Ralph said, twiddling his fingers in the air. “Did I strike a nerve? You button-down family types are always the worst offenders.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Really? I don’t? Christ, Milty, half the time you can’t even remember your wife’s fucking name! Remember the first day we met, for crying out loud? You’re probably in one of your fogs right now and don’t even realize it. I feel for ya, man, I really do, but—”
And that’s when Milton’s fist connected with Ralph’s white-stubbled chin. It wasn’t a hard punch — sadly, it was almost comical in its weakness — but it was enough to knock Ralph’s bony ass right back into the chair he’d just stood up from and send him crashing back into the computer desk. A stack of circulars slipped off the side and fluttered to the floor.
Milton staggered back, shocked by what he had just done. He watched, gape-mouthed, as Ralph floundered around in the swivel chair.
“You get one freebie,” Ralph said, pulling himself back to his feet. “Exactly one. And that’s just because I feel bad about your… condition. But if you ever take a swing at me again, Milty, I’ll put you through the fucking window, you hear me?” He shook himself off like a junkyard dog, then kicked a nearby beer can into the wall, where it ricocheted off with an empty clatter.
Milton flinched. The room was coming undone around him. Ralph was still spitting a barrage of invectives toward him, but his voice sounded fuzzy and distant and Milton had a hard time focusing on anything besides getting back to his own apartment, and fast. His heart was beating with a steady, loud rhythm in his ear, and it sounded like Don-na… Don-na… Don-na…
He stepped backward, feeling blindly for the front door.
“—cause I won’t be this nice the next time you feel like taking a cheap shot! I’ve rolled men half your age, so don’t think I can’t—”
There! At last — the doorknob. Milton grasped it and turned it and the door wouldn’t budge.
“—and you may not remember this tomorrow, you shit-brained moron, but I sure as hell will, and I promise you—”
Milton fumbled to unlock the deadbolt, then went back to the little lock on the doorknob, and finally, with great relief, he opened the door and lurched into the corridor and stumbled toward hi
s apartment, tilting and swaying like a captain fighting his way to the bridge of a storm-tossed ship.
Once inside, he slammed his front door and sucked in a deep, rattling breath. Ralph’s voice shouted more indecipherable slurs that echoed down the corridor, and Milton clapped his hands over his ears to stifle them out. Half the joints in his body crackled and popped as he hinged over and fell to the floor, gasping and squeezing his eyes shut in a mad effort to drown out the accusatory heartbeat that still thundered in his eardrums…
Donna-Donna-Donna-Donna-Donna.
The name spread through his mind like a bad infection. It wasn’t true. Couldn’t be. Ralph was just a sick bastard, that’s all there was to it. It must’ve been his twisted idea of a joke or something. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the wall. June’s face gazed down at him from her portrait above the TV, prim and confident, like a benevolent queen.
“For you, June,” he said. “Everything I’ve ever done, I did it for you. I never… I would never…” Tears leaked out his eyes and his chest constricted with grief. June just kept on smiling down at him, but her smile seemed to take on a vague, shifting, Mona Lisa quality.
He racked his brain, trying to recall the night he’d spent drinking with Ralph on the tenth floor balcony, and he barely got a glimpse of it. He must have drank himself into a stupor, or maybe it was just his “condition,” as Ralph had put it. He wished he could go back and pump him for more information — find out what had really been said that night, if anything — but that bridge hadn’t just burned, it had been blown to smithereens.
He sat up, blinking out the tears that still flowed freely, and turned his attention to the box on the end table. Gripping the arm of the sofa, he got a leg under him and struggled back to his feet. He looked down hatefully at the box, then swung his arm out and back-handed it off the end table. Its flimsy cardboard lid flew open and spilled the contents across the living room floor in a wild scatter. The sequined bow-tie hooked onto the floor lamp and hung there, swinging from the on/off switch like a dazzling red pendulum.