by James Steele
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Through the picture window
By James W. Steele
Copyright ©2011 James W. Steele
There was only one way in to Downey Cove and only way out-a strip of narrow highway cut along the sand bar and uneven rocks that prevented white capped waves from encroaching on the small, helpless town. The modest road was named after Parker Winston, the founder of the sleepy hamlet. Since its inception, it had guided tourists and retirees into the commercialized bosoms of historic Downey, promising discounted souvenirs and unforgettable ice cream not found in grocery stores. Miniature sized sail boats carved from wood, fishermen adorned in yellow and blue rain gear smoking cob pipes and coffee mugs with painted lobsters spilled from the shelves of all the shops. Snack bars and soda fountains competed against one another as they offered graduating portions of chowder and rolls, determined to out due the other in helping size. The term “more for your buck” had become all too cliché.
The leisurely tourist trap was appealing to most who came and went, returning to their lives in the big cities or continuing further on in their great adventures. The town was mystical yes indeed, but the town to one, was just that-a town. Motor homes, motorcyclists and bike riders took the road into Downey Cove not knowing what they passed, or what had watched them pass. Homes, some Victorian in nature and build, others modeled after the retreats found on Martha’s Vineyard or the salty sea shores of North Carolina were scattered along Winston Drive in uniformed fashion. Sprawling lawns guarded by picket and iron rod fences hugged the road as their homes faced out over the impending ocean only yards away. The view wasn’t cheap, even with the natural threat that stood at their doorsteps.
The last or the first home on the street, depending upon which way you headed, sat at an oblique angle as it faced towards the bottleneck of the highway where it converged from 4 lanes then to 3 and then into 2. It had no aesthetic appeal, no freshly cut lawn with symbolic picket fence. There was hardly a front porch except for a few brick steps that led up to the front door. As discouraging in its looks as it was, it was far more superior in its view from the inside. A large picture glass window, spanning the mass of the upstairs loft, looked out over the ocean and the highway at its mercy.
Milo Sampson stood at the window peering out at the traffic. He was a short old man, 95 and some change. His clothes, a burgundy colored sweater vest and tan corduroy pants, seemed three times too big as his frail body carried the mass of the weight on his shoulders. The joints in his knees and hips were worn out, almost powdered, preventing him from standing upright. He held a bamboo cane in his right hand, a gift from a fellow doctor when he retired in 1977. He didn’t need it then but thanked the orthopedist in advance for the therapeutic gift. He thanked god everyday he had it now.
His voice rumbled from glue like phlegm that coated the inside of his lungs, forcing him to utilize oxygen when he slept. Along with three pillows to keep his head upright, it was the only thing keeping him from drowning in his sleep.
Milo’s aches and ailments plagued his body relentlessly but failed at making him miserable. Just a bump in the road, he would remark. It came with age, cursed years that crumbled onto his head like pieces of rock falling from the ancient Mayan ruins that have themselves, grown old and weak.
He tried to keep his spirits up, playing a weekly game of chess in the park that sat adjacent to the loading docks at the local fishery. Young, brute ‘know it alls’ would challenge him during their lunch breaks, losing anywhere from five to ten bucks a game.
“My body is giving up on me, not my mind,” he would chuckle with a broken cackle. He didn’t need the money, hell with it. He needed the reassurance that he wasn’t lying.
On Thursdays, a young woman named Veronica would stop in to do the housework, cleaning, attempt to organize his scattering of books and magazines, drive him to the grocery store and sometimes just listen to his bantering viewpoint on the world’s problems. He was concerned though, that she had also robbed him once or twice. Small things honestly, a few singles lying about or maybe boxes of food that inexplicably disappeared. But it was theft nonetheless and he didn’t condone it. Her actions were as transparent as looking through the picture glass window that faced out over the bay.
Bigger, more deathly things were happening in his life that greatly overshadowed petty theft however.
It happened two months ago, 8 Thursdays to be exact. Milo had decided to walk the quarter mile to the fishery and wait for a taker. He never made it. Shuffling his feet along the sidewalk, Milo suddenly found himself loosing his balance. Two seconds passed and then black.
When he woke, he was staring towards the gray clouds above. A crowd of onlookers had gathered around his body as paramedics scrambled to take his vital signs and bandage the cut that gaped above his eye. That Thursday Veronica would pick him up from the hospital after being cleared by the doctor on call. Milo couldn’t recall what had happened but remembered a blunt force hitting him in the chest.
That blunt force was the side mirror of a 1976 GMC Short Bed, orange crème in color.
He should have died that day but didn’t. The scene couldn’t have been pieced together any better- his breakfast was filling and hearty, followed by a quiet swig from a shot glass full Gin. The newspaper was dull with nothing to report and the Senior Events Section hadn’t changed in weeks. He had nothing to do that day as it was, why not kick the bucket? It frustrated him, knowing that the selective nature of things beyond his control had given him life once again. He was never one to lose, at anything.
There was a knock at the door, pulling Milo from his afternoon recession into the alcove of his upstairs apartment-the office that looked out of the picture window.
Milo took his cane into the palm of his hand and gingerly weaved around stacks of outdated newspapers, Reader’s Digest and National Geographic’s like a nimble Godzilla tip toeing through Tokyo. Around a bookcase that doubled as a temporary wall, his apartment opened up to a one room flat. Against a far wall was a Murphy bed and dresser accompanied by a closet sized washroom. Nearest to the front door was a kitchenette and dining area that lacked a feasible table and chairs. Scatters of old medical charts and studies from patients long deceased covered the table and spilled over to the seats of the chairs.
He knew he needed to trash the accumulating rummage that cluttered his life, no less his house.
In the middle of the room was the leather couch that he used to keep in the office of his clinic. So many diagnosis had been made while laying against the leather grain and rigid arms, his reading glasses slipping from the bridge of his nose while a half eaten pencil dangled from his ear. Long hours and unabashed patient care were his credo.
(Doctor) Milo Sampson left his home of Chicago as a tenured, well known Orthopedic Spine Surgeon at the age of 55, an age when most blue collar, even white collar workers were just beginning to plan for retirement. Picking the right patients and staying humble with a buck were all it took.
His devotion to saving lives with delicate hands crafted for the human body had drifted to questions that touched upon existence and when his was going to end. It was an ironic contrast to the man that followed the legend.
The knock came once more.
Milo slid the chain from the latch and unlocked it, turning the creaking door as he mumbled something under his breath. In truth he was just trying to gasp for another helping of oxygen.
Veronica Mendez was a petite Hispanic woman with flat brown hair and plain looking street clothes-Levi’s, a ratted knit sweater and white sneakers. Her eye lashes batted seductively when she talked, putting sparks back in
to Milo’s libido when she was around. He retained her services for two reasons; one was most definitely the eyes and two, she would do anything to make him happy.
Milo inched the door open to see her standing outside, waiting to be invited in.
“Ms. Mendez, I didn’t realize it was you,” Milo remarked as he continued to pull the door open a bit more.
“It is Thursday no?”
“I guess you’re right. Please come.”
Veronica followed Milo into the small apartment and placed her purse down on the kitchenette counter. A key chain dangled from the zipper with a photo of her two sons, most likely taken during the school photo season.
Almost immediately she began to move around the home and tidy up. Milo became alarmed.
“No wait!” He said as he grabbed her arm. “Please sit down first.
Veronica did as she was asked, sitting across from him on the large leather couch that sat under the picture window. Milo took in a labored breath and collected the words he wanted to say.
“How are you?” He finally asked.
Veronica was a bit uneasy and her body language showed it. “I’m okay I guess. Is there something wrong Mr. Sampson? Did
