Menage_a_20_-_Tales_with_a_Hook

by Twenty Goodreads Authors

  She shook her head.

  “I spend each day waiting for your next storm. What will tick him off this time? A forgotten errand? Or maybe spilled milk?”

  Ben waited for her to continue, a deep frown on his face.

  She pointed her finger at him.

  “Someday your storms will go too far, and I will break. Then your house will be spotless and perfect, because no one but you will be there to mess it up.”

  A tear streaked down her cheek and she swiped it away with the back of her hand.

  “Mom, I’m hungry!” Suzanna called from the tree fort.

  “Me too! I’m hungry too!” The twins chimed in.

  Trina rubbed the last of her tears away and stood up.

  “I’ll have dinner ready in about a half an hour. Clean up your toys while I cook, okay?”

  Ben watched her go into the house and then sat down on the step she had just vacated. It was still warm from her touch. He watched the children run and play for a few minutes, and then gazed off over the fence, her words echoing in his memory.

  Later that week, an evening thunderstorm shook the house, its powerful gusts rattling the windows.

  Sitting alone in the front room, Trina watched the lights flash across the sky and thought that surely this would be the storm that brought down the tree.

  Ben had been different this week; not perfect, not even kind all the time, but the cruel barbs had ceased. He was quieter, and it made her uneasy, like the calm before the storm. Part of her felt the stirrings of hope, but with hope comes the possibility of disappointment. Through the years, the numerous disappointments came as heavy blows, stacking one on top of the other until each new crushing attack threatened to bury her.

  A hopeful heart was vulnerable, a liability.

  A brilliant strike lit the night, silhouetting the tree in the grips of the storm. The branches tossed so violently that the entire trunk seemed to sway, but still, it remained standing.

  The night would see it bend, and shake, but even the mighty storm could not make it fall.

  It’s like me. I’m bending…but not yet broken.

  F ORTY YEARS LATER…

  Trina shuffled through the field mulling the events of the past week. Fifty-two years was a lifetime to spend with someone, and yet it had not been enough.

  Her fingers twisted around the locket that held her favorite photo of him, taken not long after their twelfth anniversary. That was the year she had thought their relationship was over; a year of bitter tears wept into the pillow at night when everyone else slept; a year of wondering if the children would be better off with a father that raged and cursed, or better off with none at all.

  That year Ben had changed. He became the father she hoped him to be. Under his tender care, the children and their relationship flourished.

  Instead of raging, Ben reasoned.

  Instead of cursing, he complimented.

  She had thought their union to be as rotted as an old dead tree, but it had proven to be much stronger…and so had the tree.

  Approaching the tree with the reverence of an old friend, she stretched her wrinkled fingers and touched the aged wood. She had glanced at it a thousand times over the years, always expecting to see it fall, but it remained. Instead of a symbol of defeat, it had become a symbol of fortitude, of faithfulness.

  Eventually, the bark fell away and the core wood weathered until the brown whitened to a dusty grey. The last couple years it even seemed to lean a little like a tired old man. She felt that it was fitting to see it age so, like the three of them were linked to grow old together and never fall.

  Except that Ben had fallen, and now she was alone.

  Overcome, she leaned against the trunk of the old tree, meaning to have a good cry. But when she did, the entire tree shifted. She stilled and touched the tree again, pushing harder when she felt it give. Instead of falling, it swiveled to the right, returning to its former position the moment her pressure let up.

  “What’s this?”

  Her brows furrowed as she examined the tree closer, her fingers tracing down the side. The large knot she had observed from a distance proved to be a worn hole with some sort of iron rod jutting out of it. Iron Rod?

  Slowly making her way down on one knee, she dug loose dirt at the base of the tree to see how far down the rod went. After a minute, her fingers scraped over something hard. She brushed away the dirt and uncovered… concrete.

  Deep grooves in the dirt on either side showed where the tree had rocked back and forth as the wood around the iron post wore away.

  “Oh Ben,” she whispered, a tear spilling down her cheek. “You saved us both.”

  For a long time she stared where the tree had been impaled and then cemented in place.

  JEANNE VOELKER

  I was born during WWII and spent my childhood years in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.

  I graduated from the University of Washington, Seattle, in 1980 with a degree in English literature. I studied literature and composition because I consider stories essential to life.

  I have always admired a well-told tale and for many years, stories have amused, encouraged, educated, and sustained me. Now it’s my turn to add to the pot.

  I write from my remodeled farm house in Seattle where I also have a well-established tutoring business.

  E LDER CARES is a snippet from the lives of Kate and Maude, two lively, though ageing sisters, who live in tune with nature at the edge of the continent. Their talents lie in playing the cards life deals them. Following a disheartening loss, the sisters’ generosity brings them a surprise and undreamed of pleasures.

  Elder Cares

  Jeanne Voelker

  Copyright © Jeanne Voelker 2009 After Kate took the soup, bowls, and spoons down to our beachside table, we—one at each elbow—guided Hank from the front deck to the path and down to the bulkhead. Hank’s feet have walked this path for sixty years, so he often says that his feet can see the way and he doesn’t need our help. He could be right, but we help him anyway, and this time he didn’t protest.

  Living on the shore of Puget Sound, we follow the cues of the seasons, and we eat our supper when the sun drops behind the Olympic Mountains. The climate is mild in the Pacific Northwest so, even in winter—when the sun sets at 4:30—we occasionally dine on the beach.

  On this evening in early spring, it was a few minutes past seven o’clock when we headed for the beach. Evening brought a chill, so we wore sweaters and carried a blanket. I stirred the soup and Kate praised the tangy aroma, but Hank said his stomach felt off and he would rather lie on his recliner and drink the fresh air.

  Kate wrapped and tucked the blanket for Hank and gave him a soda cracker as a digestive. I filled two bowls at the table and prepared to eat in the crisp salt air.

  Oh how I love this beach. The waves plash in and, as the water recedes, the gravel drums a rolling staccato into the sea. These scents and sounds have informed my soul for thirty years. I’m not surprised that Hank finds the sea air nourishing.

  Far out on the sound, a tugboat pulled a barge heaped high with sand. Near us, a gull picked up a butter clam, flew it high into the air and dropped it onto the rocky beach. The shell didn’t break, so the gull flew it higher the second time to open his dinner.

  The sun sat for a moment on the peaks of the snow-covered Olympic Mountains and the light streaked a brilliant path across the water. The beach rocks glowed, as did the trees beside us in their new green dress.

  As the sun disappeared behind Mount Olympus, the clouds on the horizon were edged with gold. A few minutes later, the sky in the west was painted with soft warm colors. I soaked up the beauty and promised myself, as I had many times, that I would remember this scene always.

  Some day, when we cannot climb the hill, we will have to leave this paradise.

  The thought made me shiver and I pulled my sweater close around me. Kate turned to Hank. “Are you warm enough, honey?” she asked.

  But
Hank didn’t answer. Hank had closed his eyes and died, his soda cracker still on his blanket. Kate kneeled beside him. She laid her head on his chest and kissed his face and whispered something to him.

  The sons had to be called home to this house that Hank built, or as John, the eldest, sometimes called it, “the house built for Kate in 1948”. There were bedrooms to tidy and funeral arrangements to complete.

  Kate spoke of visitations. “Hank is still with us. I saw him last night.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Down on the bulkhead. And later he stood behind my chair.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He looked like Hank, and he wore bright colors.”

  Another day, Kate cried. “I knew this day would come, but I didn’t know I would miss him so much.”

  What could I do but hug my tearful sister.

  The day of the funeral came and went. The sons grieved for the loss of their father, yet the joy of being together and exchanging light-hearted banter mitigated their sorrow.

  “Ninety-five years,” said Robert. “I hope I make it that far.” “Then you should get more exercise,” said Richard, the youngest. “Why don’t you get on a plane once in a while and come play tennis with me?”

  “Or build a house from beach wood and scrap lumber, no board the same length as another,” said Patrick. “That’s exercise!”

  “I have always wondered why you boys scattered so far,” I said.

  “Aw, Auntie,” said Patrick, “Don’t you remember Dad’s words? He said overlooking the sea in our growing-up years gave us wanderlust.”

  The local paper published the funeral date and people we hadn’t seen in many years showed up—sons and daughters of couples who once lived on this beach, and workers who remembered Hank as a kind and fair boss. Some said they hadn’t heard anything of Hank for at least twenty years, meaning of course, they had wondered if we were still alive.

  After the funeral, the family and a few friends went to dinner at a restaurant where we ate, drank wine, and shared Hank stories and fish stories.

  “Remember the time when Dad took us rowing and the tide changed and we could hardly get back?”

  “Remember when Dad taught us to sail and we stopped to fish and you caught a dogfish?”

  “Yeah, that sucker was a fighter. I thought I had a whale!”

  “How big was it?”

  “Ummm, like this! And he almost dragged us out to sea.”

  “How big?”

  There’s a lot of good will and laughter at after-funeral gatherings. The sons stayed for two more days and then caught planes to their faraway homes.

  “The house that Hank built” was secluded, yet we were not far from town. To reach town, we walked up our switchback trail, then along the shoulder of the road for two miles. Convenient? Not at all, but the hill was a blessing.

  Five years ago, Kate, Hank, and I were interviewed on a local radio show. The host of the program introduced us and asked, “What is your recipe for a long and healthy life?”

  A standard question, but the young host did ask it as if he genuinely wanted to know.

  “We live on the beach, at the base of a hill,” said Kate. “The hill is our daily exercise. Need groceries? Hike up the hill! Take out the garbage? Haul it up the hill! Doctor appointment? We mostly get well by ourselves. No sick person feels like walking up that hill.”

  The interviewer laughed. “What are your thoughts, Maude? Is the hill behind your house the secret to eternal youth?”

  “Pretty close,” I said. “We’re quite active. We grow vegetables in the summer, and in the autumn, we rake the big maple leaves off the trail.”

  Hank said, “Look at these ladies! Eighty-three and eightyone years old and they have schoolgirl complexions. They’re slim and they have legs that a twenty-year-old would be proud of.” Hank was ninety at the time. His mind was sharp, but his sight had failed, so maybe we didn’t look quite as good as he imagined.

  “How many years have you and Kate been married?” asked the interviewer.

  “We celebrated our fiftieth anniversary five years ago, so it must be fifty-five now,” Hank answered.

  “And what’s the secret to a long and happy marriage?” he asked Hank.

  “Ask Kate. She’s the boss.” Hank smiled and winked as he passed the question to Kate.

  “What do you say is the secret, Kate?” asked the interviewer.

  “Well, we never had any complaint about each other,” said Kate.

  “No complaints? Pretty good secret.”

  I moved in with Kate and Hank after their boys were grown. “This house is awfully big for two,” Kate had said.

  In his last few years, Hank was blind and frail, but Kate cared for him so earnestly that he never grew ill. He faded gradually, like daylight. Now, Hank was dead and Kate and I confessed that we felt rather dead ourselves.

  After the sons had chosen mementos and returned to their countries of choice, Kate fell into deep grief. She had lost her only love, her lifetime pal, and she was inconsolable. For two weeks, Kate didn’t eat and she hardly slept. Her tears were unrelenting, and I feared I would lose her too.

  After two weeks, I finally convinced Kate to taste a soufflé I had made. She ate a half portion and said she felt a little better.

  “Hank had a long and happy life,” I said for the hundredth time.

  “But now he’s gone,” said Kate, “and we were so accustomed to each other.”

  “Do you want to move to an easier place?” I asked her.

  “No. I don’t want to lose our home as well.”

  I didn’t want to move either. Yet, I wanted to do whatever would be best. “But won’t these surroundings only remind you of our loss?”

  “Hank made these walls, these floors, these windows. Hank is here in this work. Staying will be a comfort.”

  Kate was right. Losing Hank was difficult enough to endure. A change of residence now would only make life harder.

  In recent years, Kate and I had developed a routine. Each day, one of us would shop for food and the other would stay home to help Hank. In earlier times, we three had walked to town together, but there came a time when Hank couldn’t climb the steep trail. That’s when Kate and I decided to take turns. Each day, one of us would walk the miles and carry groceries home. The one not going out would cook that day.

  The vegetable garden was originally Hank’s project, but we took it over when he could no longer kneel. Now summer was coming and we would plant again. Digging, weeding, and seeing things grow would do Kate good.

  After Hank died, Kate and I walked together to the shops. We didn’t talk much. It felt better to be silent. One time, as we walked down the trail, loaded with groceries, Kate said, “Do you know what I liked best about being married?”

  I looked at Kate’s face to see if the answer was there. “There was always someone around to do things for.” “I can see that. I’ve always liked helping too. Remember? I

  once hoped to go into nursing.”

  “Mm, yeah, I dreamed of a helping career too, but when I

  met Hank, my ambition changed.” Kate gave a small laugh. “It’s good to see you smile. Have you thought of anything

  you would like to do?”

  “I’ve considered taking on volunteer work, but I don’t

  know...”

  “What sort of work?”

  “Oh, maybe at the hospital or at an old folks’ home.” I smiled to think of Kate tending the old people.

  “There’s a new nursing home in town,” I said. “I haven’t

  seen it, but there was an ad on television.”

  “No, it was just a thought. If I committed to helping and

  then didn’t feel like walking up the hill, I would let people

  down.”

  The next day, Kate wanted to work in the garden. We had

  already prepared the soil and Kate liked to plant, so I said I

  would go buy groce
ries and she could plant her circles of

  carrots, radishes, bush beans, and squash. Some people arrange

  their gardens in rows. Kate prefers circles.

  “And if you see lettuce and cucumber seeds, will you buy

  some?”

  “Yes, I’ll check the hardware store.”

  I trudged up the hill with my backpack and grocery bag. The two miles up the road was a lovely walk in good weather. On this late spring afternoon, the air was brisk so I wore my coat. I found the seeds and the bread for dinner. By the time I began to walk back, the sun was ready to sink into the ocean. It was dusk when I neared the top of our trail.

  We don’t see many cars or pedestrians along this road, besides those from the neighborhood. In the half-light, I saw a man walking toward me on the other side of the road. He had just come around the bend and I couldn’t see him clearly, but he had the careful walk of the elderly.

  The next moment, a vehicle careened around the bend, and although the man stepped aside, the car clipped his leg and he stumbled into the ditch. The driver then turned on his headlights and continued up the road. I hurried to the man who lay sprawled in the ditch.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Glumph.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Flizzescush.”

  “Here, let me help you. Can you stand?”

  I helped him to his feet, then realized that the man wore

  only a bathrobe. He stood on his right foot, but he held up his left. He had an abrasion above his right eye. Now what to do? There were no houses nearby except for one whose owner was away. No telephones. If the man were unable to walk, I would have to leave him at the side of the road and go for help. Leaving him alone in his confused state was too risky. I would have to take him down the trail.

  I picked up a knobby stick from the edge of the woods and gave it to the man to use as a cane. I became his left-side crutch. The man was slightly taller than me so I draped his arm over the top of my backpack. This gave him more support than my narrow shoulders could have. Slowly, very slowly, we hopped and lurched down the trail.