Late Fall

by Noelle Adams

  Yes, I’ve counted them. It’s not like I set out to do so. I just notice every time a song ends and he goes around to find someone else to dance with.

  He doesn’t even really ask the women. He just sticks out his hand and assumes the woman will stand up and walk out to the dance floor with him. He’s not a flashy dancer like a couple of the others in the room, but he’s certainly competent. And not a single woman turns him down.

  I don’t know why it annoys me as much as it does. It’s that smug entitlement, I think—that assumption he can have anything he wants.

  The bench.

  Any of the women in the room.

  Anything he wants.

  I would have thought that, living as long as he has, some of that arrogance would have been burned off through the fires of life, but evidently it hasn’t been.

  He’s still the same jackass who showed up in my office one day and told me my budget for periodicals would be cut in half starting immediately.

  Needless to say, my response to this outrageous claim was neither gentle nor polite.

  “Do you know Dave then?” Gordon asks, noticing my preoccupation.

  I curse myself for being rude and turn my attention back to my companion. “He worked at my college for a few years. He was the money guy.”

  “Was he? I guess he wasn’t very popular then.”

  “No. Not really.”

  “That must be why you were frowning at him.”

  I hadn’t realized I was frowning before, although it’s not surprising given the turn of my thoughts. “That was a long time ago,” I say, shaping my expression to be light and pleasant. “I’m sure he’s a very nice man.”

  Gordon shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”

  “He’s not a nice man?” I’m interested—for obvious reasons.

  “I guess he’s okay. Just doesn’t make much of an effort. You know?”

  I know exactly, no matter how vague his words are. It’s precisely my problem with Dave too. People who are able to take what they want without working too hard at it just rub me the wrong way. I like Gordon even better for recognizing it and for responding to the quality the same way I do.

  We like to have our impressions validated by other people. And the less generous they are, the more we like to have them validated.

  “He looks popular,” I murmur, as Dave finishes his dance with a plump bleached blonde with ridiculously high heels and eyes the room, obviously looking for his next partner.

  His eyes land on me for a moment, and I quickly look away.

  He’s not likely to ask me to dance, given our conversation that morning. But, if he does, I’m certainly going to say no.

  “All the ladies like him,” Gordon says, shaking his head as if this is a source of ire for him. “As you can see.”

  “I guess there’s a lot of competition here,” I begin, looking around and easily picking up undertones in looks and postures and interactions. “For partners, I mean. There are so many more women than men.”

  “I suppose so. Everyone wants to be coupled up.”

  I give Gordon a curious look. “You haven’t found someone then?”

  A brief flicker of grief crosses his face. “I had someone for nearly a year. She passed away just over a month ago.”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry. What was her name?”

  “Wendy. She was wonderful.” He sighs. “But, onward, right?”

  “Right.”

  It strikes me as a sad thing to say. Onward. After you’ve lost someone you love. There’s not much else for one to do, however, since life goes on whether we want it to or not.

  I notice Marjorie standing in a corner of the room, and I wave at her cheerfully.

  She waves back, smiling endlessly, but I notice that she’s fidgety, as if she’s bored or restless or discontent. She’s only danced once, as far as I can tell. It would be nice if someone would dance with her again. She’s obviously waiting for it, since she hasn’t found a seat like many of the others.

  As I watch, Dave walks over and offers his hand to Marjorie. She’s clearly thrilled, and she giggles as she goes out to the dance floor with him.

  She’s probably several years older than him, and she’s not as attractive as the other women he’s been dancing with, so it feels like a gesture of kindness to me.

  One I never would have expected from him.

  “That’s nice,” Gordon murmurs, obviously recognizing it too. “Everyone loves Marjorie. I’m glad she’s getting to dance.”

  “You should get out there,” I say, pushing aside the silly little flutter of appreciation. This isn’t an Austen novel, after all. One little gesture that costs Dave nothing isn’t any sort of sign of his nobility or a good heart hiding under his spoiled nature.

  As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have a good heart at all.

  “I have a bum knee,” Gordon says, “but I can give it a try if you want to join me.”

  I shake my head, pleased with the words, as if I’m important enough to affect his choices.

  You don’t grow out of that. You don’t get too old for it to mean something to you.

  “I don’t think I’m up to it quite yet, after my hip surgery. And I’ve never been much of a dancer.”

  “I’ll just keep you company here then.”

  He does keep me company—for a good hour until the dancers were wearing out and some of the residents have started leaving.

  I’m getting tired myself, as pleasant as Gordon’s conversation is. Social situations always drain me, and I need to get back on my own to recover.

  So I say good night to Gordon, smile and wave at a few acquaintances, including Marjorie, and start to the door of the room.

  As I’m leaving, Dave Andrews is coming back in. I don’t know where he went, although I was aware of his disappearing about five minutes ago.

  He may have just gone to use the restroom.

  I almost bump into him, and I have to stabilize myself on my walker.

  “Oh,” I say, startled and off balance. “Try to watch where you’re going.”

  “The same could be said of you.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not very gallant.”

  “You’re expecting gallantry?”

  “No.” I give him a cool glare, since his tone was dry and lofty, exactly the kind of tone that annoys me the most. “I don’t expect anything of the kind.”

  “I see you’ve made a friend,” Dave says, glancing into the room, where Gordon is having a chat with a few other residents.

  It’s none of his business whether I’ve made a friend or not, so I decide not to answer.

  “Just be careful. He was in a relationship with a woman who died recently, so he’s not yet emotionally available.”

  Maybe his advice is given out in a genuine attempt to help, but I don’t really think so. He sounds snide, as if he’s pleased that the man who has showed interest in me can’t really want me for real.

  “Well, you’d know all about emotional unavailability, wouldn’t you?”

  As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. It’s been a long time since I believed that kind of empty banter is constructive or worthwhile.

  He doesn’t even react except to almost smile, as if something amuses him. “Maybe. So how are you enjoying Eagle’s Rest after your first week?”

  It’s the first mostly civil thing he’s said to me since we met this morning. “I don’t really know,” I say, speaking the truth. “It’s kind of like being in school again, isn’t it?”

  He gives a dry chuckle. “Yes. And the longer you’re here, the more it feels that way.”

  I don’t know exactly how to respond to that—I’m not sure whether it’s encouraging to know that other people feel the way I do or depressing to know it’s never going to change. I end up nodding my farewell and continuing down the hall.

  I feel like he might be watching me as I leave him, but I don’t turn my head to look back.

  five

/>   The next morning, I wake up a little later than usual, so I don’t have as long to drink tea and sit on my patio, watching the sun slowly rise behind the mountains.

  There are rarely true sunrises around here. Usually, the sky just gradually lightens, since the sun itself is hidden behind a mountain until it’s too far up in the sky for there to be stunning shades of pink and orange on display.

  Sometimes, you get lucky if you’re in exactly the right position. But, from my patio, all I see is that slow lightening of the sky.

  It’s Sunday, and it’s common practice for people to sleep in today—I assume that’s true of the residents of Eagle’s Rest as much as it is the rest of the world. I don’t sleep in, however. I don’t think I’m capable of it anymore.

  As it is, getting up just after five, I feel like I’m late, like I’m unsettled and out of sorts. I’m more tired than usual, and I know it’s from the socializing last night. I stayed up later than I anticipated, and I exerted far more energy in interacting with others than I have in a very long time. I might not have danced, but it was exertion just the same.

  I’d been considering going to church this morning, but I decide against it as I sip my first cup of tea. I’ve gone to church on and off all my life—some periods more off than on—and it still feels to me like an appropriate thing to do on a Sunday morning.

  But not this morning. Today, I’ll take my walk and then take it easy for the rest of the day. Roger sent me a new book of crosswords yesterday, so I’ll start on one of those. Maybe doze and watch a British mystery this afternoon.

  There are some folks my age who get bored without orchestrated activities, but I certainly am not one of them.

  I’m looking forward to my day as I dress and leave the building for my walk. I still take the walker, but I’m pleased that this morning I don’t have to lean on it very much. I just keep it in front of me to stabilize my balance.

  I’ve been active all my life, and perhaps the worst part of getting old is not being able to make my body do what it used to do all the time.

  The morning is so cool it’s almost brisk. I’m glad I put on a sweater as I feel the breeze blowing my clothes against my skin. It feels like a real fall day—with even more of that earthy autumn scent in the air than I smelled yesterday.

  I love it.

  My dogs always used to get energized when the weather turned cooler, after being lazy and lethargic all summer. I remember watching them bound across the grass and into the woods on the first genuinely cool day of the fall, and I feel a bit like them this morning.

  Not that I’m inclined to go bounding anywhere at the moment—or ever again, for that matter—but still … it’s a nice thought. It’s a nice feeling.

  I make it to the bench a few minutes quicker than I’ve been managing for the last week, and I’m excited about that too. Despite the normal aches in my joints, I’m feeling good this morning. Maybe I’m recovering from the hip surgery at last.

  I sit on the bench and breathe the cool air and think encouraging thoughts for about ten minutes. Then I hear a sound down the path coming from the direction of the residence.

  I have a faint suspicion about who it might be, and the suspicion is realized when Dave Andrews comes into view.

  I’m tempted to turn away and pretend I don’t notice him, but this feels a bit too childish to follow through with. They say that old people sometimes turn childish. I don’t want that to be true of me.

  So I’m watching calmly as he approaches. Like yesterday, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a golf shirt that looks expensive. Like yesterday, he’s frowning as he draws near.

  “So you’re here again.”

  I’m not sure whether this is a question or statement. Either way, the answer should be self-evident. I just lift my eyebrows and watch as he takes the seat beside me.

  “Are you always going to be here?” he asks rather gruffly, giving me an impatient look.

  “Not every hour of the day, obviously. But I walk every morning, and this is the view that I particularly like. So, yes, you can expect to find me here in the mornings at about this time.”

  He doesn’t reply. Just gives me a cool look and stares out into the landscape.

  It’s still summer enough for the leaves on the trees to be green. They’re not turning yellow or brown or red yet, so the valley is cast with a uniform green color, broken only by the slashing lines of the roads, the scattering of buildings, and the glinting of the lake.

  “I’m sure there are other walks you can take.” I make sure to keep my voice composed, as if the conversation is of no interest to me. “If you’d rather not run into me.”

  “I always walk here.”

  “Then we’ll likely see each other. Please don’t feel obliged to talk to me if you’d rather not. I’m used to my own company.”

  “I know that.”

  I’m not sure what he means by that last comment. It could be an insinuation, but the tone isn’t particularly snide or bitter.

  He’s a strange man. Not as easy to read as he was when he was younger.

  We both stare out at the valley for a few minutes. Then he asks without transition, “Why did you never get married?”

  I blink and turn to look at him. “Why do you assume I never did?” The question is a way of stalling, of course, since I have no idea how to answer him.

  “I asked about you. They said you didn’t. Did you?”

  I wonder who “they” is. Then I wonder why Dave has been asking about me at all. I could be flattered, but I’m not. “No. I never got married.”

  “Why not?”

  I give a little shrug, since asking why I never got married is like asking why I became a librarian or why I love dogs or why I wear my hair long.

  It’s just who I am and how my life turned out. It’s not something that can be explained in a few words.

  Dave is studying me now, as if he’s trying to figure me out, trying to see something on my face. “A few people said, back at the college, that you were gay.”

  I shake my head. I’m not surprised, nor am I offended. It’s not an unreasonable speculation, given my long-unmarried status.

  Women of my generation got married. If they didn’t, there was something different about them.

  I suppose there’s something different about me.

  Of course, let’s be honest and admit there’s something different about everyone.

  “I’m not gay,” I say calmly, giving Dave a little smile so he’ll know the question doesn’t concern me.

  “I didn’t think you were. You were living with a man when we worked together, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. I was.” That was Jeff. He was the only man I lived with.

  “He didn’t want to marry you?”

  Now, I’m a little annoyed. “He wanted to marry me. I didn’t want to marry him.”

  “Why not? Holding out for Prince Charming?”

  “If that were the case, I would be sadly out of luck, wouldn’t I?”

  Dave gives a little laugh, the crease in his chin more pronounced than usual. “I guess so.”

  He seems to accept my refusal to open up on private matters with him, because he doesn’t press me any further about my unmarried condition.

  After a few minutes, I pick up my book and start to read, and he stares off into the distance without speaking.

  I wonder what he’s thinking about, but I’m not about to ask him.

  I do like that he’s able to amuse himself with his own thoughts. It’s not something that is true about everyone.

  The next day, Dave is sitting on the bench when I approach.

  I’m expecting him to show up, since he has the last two days, but seeing him there before me rattles me a bit.

  Naturally, I don’t show it. I just murmur good morning as I sit down on the bench beside him.

  “I was thinking maybe you wouldn’t make it this morning,” he says. He doesn’t smile at me. He has a very charming smile—I kno
w this quite well—but he doesn’t seem inclined to aim it at me very often. But he’s not as rude and resentful as he was the first day, so I have to assume he doesn’t mind my presence as much as he initially indicated.

  I don’t mind his either, as long as he doesn’t start babbling to me all the time.

  “Why would you assume I wouldn’t make it?” I ask, arranging my skirt around my legs. I wear a long, flowing, casual skirt—the kind I used to wear all the time. It feels like me, so I’m glad I put it on this morning.

  “You weren’t here when I got here.”

  “I’m here at my normal time. You’re here earlier than usual.”

  He looks at his watch, as if surprised. “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I lose track of time sometimes.”

  I wonder if this is true—and, if so, how much it affects him. It’s a common thing to happen once a person hits seventy. Dave seems to be in quite good shape physically. He can walk and dance and play tennis a lot better than I possibly could. But there must be a reason he moved from the independent-living cottages to the assisted-living residence last year.

  Maybe it’s his memory.

  If so, it’s certainly not debilitating, since this is the first time I’ve noticed any sign of it.

  “Well, it’s just after six thirty in the morning right now,” I say. “This is the time I always get here.”

  “You always leave at the same time?”

  “Yes. Give or take a few minutes. Why?”

  “I was just wondering if you still live by a schedule.”

  Of course I live by a schedule. I go to bed around the same time every night. I wake up around the same time too. I eat breakfast at seven and lunch at eleven thirty, tea around three and dinner by five thirty. I leave for my walk at about a quarter after six.

  Even after a week at Eagle’s Rest, my schedule has been finalized. When I was younger—when I was working—my schedule each day would often look different, since I could never predict what might come up throughout the day.

  But now, nothing ever comes up. Days fall into a familiar rhythm. There is security in that. Comfort.

  I know I’m not the only person my age who has found the same thing to be true.