Long Division

by Jane Berentson

  I guess I should be going now. My turn to drive laps around the compound and listen to AC/DC with this douche bag Robertson. I just don’t think AC/DC suits the desert night. I love you and miss you, my Annie. This will all be done soon enough. It’s already been almost two months. Can you believe it? Of course you believe it. I said so. Ahhhh.

  Love and kisses and hugs for you. XOXO. Yours,

  David

  Secret code phrases? Secret fucking code phrases!??! Yeah, that’s cute and all, but when I take my boy back from the army, I do hope I can chisel the army out of my boy. Below the Mason-Dixon line. We’ve both never even been.

  7

  Today I’m calling my book Time Out for Karma, because I’ve realized that with David gone I finally have more time to pursue semi-altruistic 25 deeds. Back in college I was really into helping out for all the different awareness weeks, and I even spent every Thursday night of my junior year playing dodgeball with about twenty Mexican-American children in a school gymnasium while their parents took free NGOSPONSORED English classes.26 But since I started teaching full time and since I started snuggling David Peterson full time, my life has managed to squeeze out any aspect of service. And what’s scarier is that until very recently, I hadn’t even noticed.

  I was standing in the kitchen section of Home Depot looking at different patterns of shelf paper. You know, the kind where you peel that back off and stick the top layer inside your cupboards so they look pretty and are easy to clean. It was between a classic red gingham and this floral print that reminded me of a favorite dress I had in elementary school. I had never used shelf paper before. It wasn’t a poor college student necessity, but that morning as I moved my cereal boxes into ABC order, the thought of a lovely patterned floor on the shelf struck me as nice. Nice and organized. Put together. With it. A twenty-four-year-old with shelf paper is a twenty-four-year-old with her ducks in a row. If there had been a shelf paper at Home Depot with ducks on it, particularly ducklings, I surely would have chosen it. But as I stood there, debating the aesthetic future of the DARK INSIDES OF MY FUCKING PANTRY, I suddenly changed my mind. Who was I kidding? Shelf paper? What an indulgent waste. What a load of crap.

  So I decided that I need to throw positive energy back into the universe—not behind closed doors. I have shamefully chosen not to spend time with the First Wives Knitting Club. I even lied about belonging to a book club. There is something in me (hopefully warm; hopefully patient; hopefully kind) that can affect change or provide assistance to other humans who might need it. And though it’s only about 59 percent altruistic of me, I figure giving something back might just line my luck up right. David, I am helping the community to preserve your precious limbs!

  I knew I couldn’t handle any more children. It wouldn’t be fair to my students to over-saturate my life with kiddies and risk burning out my patience and my mysteriously abundant cheer. I also knew that helping animals would make me cry. And really, it was a human connection that I craved. So fund-raising—though donations save sooo much—didn’t seem right either.

  I thought this out as I wandered through the lumber aisles of Home Depot, enjoying the wafting scents of cedar and pine, occasionally stopping to rub my fingers along the prickly grain. And then I saw this couple. They were old. So very very old. The man was pushing a cart with just three tiny things in it. And the woman was saying something about how they didn’t really need a tool shed. She said, “Frank, you’re not even supposed to use a hacksaw anymore.” I could tell she had one of those hairstyles that must get “set” once a week at the salon. I imagined her name to be Dorothy or Wilma. I hoped very much that it was Wilma. And that’s when I figured it out. Helping old people! A nursing home! An old folks’ home! A sterile assisted-living complex! Surely therein lies a poor old soul who needs a hand with letter writing or reading out loud or maybe just talking about The Golden Girls or something.

  I left Home Depot without a single purchase, and I thought about old folks the entire way home. An old woman (or man, whatever) will want to talk about herself. She’ll have one hundred years of stories rattling around in a brain that no one really pays attention to. Except I’ll be paying attention, and I’ll ask questions, and we’ll never ever talk about boring little me. Maybe we’ll watch old films together and she’ll tell me about how her dead husband looked just like Clark Gable when he was young. And that on their honeymoon cruise they pretended he actually was Clark Gable and he signed autographs for all the other guests. Oh, those were the days. She’ll laugh. I’ll laugh. It will be so awesome.

  When I got home I searched for nursing homes online. There are three within ten miles of my house, and I decided that Violet Meadows sounded like a promising name. Gentle violets swaying in a breeze. Clean, crisp sheets and giggling exercise sessions in wheelchairs. I gave them a call.

  “Hi, my name is Annie Harper. I teach third grade at Franklin Elementary, and I’m looking for a volunteer job.” The woman on the phone sighed. It was one of those super exasperated sighs, and I wondered what I had done wrong.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, no kids here. The little ones are just too germy. We don’t allow groups of children on premises for the safety and health of our residents.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I mean. I just want to volunteer. By myself. Alone.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, you will need to come by between ten and five on a weekday and fill out an application with our volunteer coordinator.”

  “Okay. Great. Thank you. I’ll be by tomorrow. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and made myself some popcorn. I know it’s supposed to give you cancer, but I stood right in front of the microwave staring into the semitranslucent door and watching the bag spin and swell. Just like my heart, I thought. Add some new force and heat to it. Watch it grow grow grow. Taste good. Feel better. Share. This is how the universe functions.

  The Violet Meadows Retirement Center is completely gray inside. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. I know these kinds of homes are expensive and that extra funds are probably not spent on snazzy interior design. Maybe I can propose a paint day? I imagine paint rollers with super long handles so any wheelchaired octogenarian with enough arm strength can help out. Maybe we’d play big band music while we work. But as soon as I see the first little clump of residents, half of them snoozing and drooling in front of a fuzzy television screen of MacGyver scaling a wall, I realize that painting isn’t too likely at all.

  The volunteer coordinator is also the activities coordinator, and she has three of these creepy kitty bobblehead dolls affixed to the top of her computer monitor. They’re made of felt-covered plastic, and the way they bobble is nothing like the way a real cat would actually move. Her office is just a little more pleasant than what else I’ve seen of Violet Meadows, and I see that her calendar has Xs marked over each passed day.

  Promise promise promise. I promise on every healthy, vital organ I have NEVER to do this.

  “So, Annie, what are you interested in helping out with? We can get you a conversation partner. We have plenty of residents who are sick of each other and eager to converse with a new face.”

  She says this without a flicker of enthusiasm and with a distance and disgust that freaks me out. Like the residents are rabid dogs that need someone to calmly make hushing noises while slipping trays of food through a cage door.

  “Yeah. Perfect. Exactly. Sounds just right. Sign me up.” I fill out this questionnaire about myself that the woman (her name is Jean) pulls from a faded red folder that looks older than me. It asks questions about my employment history, my interests, what kind of books I read and what kind of movies I like. It reminds me of e-mail forwards that would get passed around in college. Except no Bud Light vs. Coors Light or top vs. bottom type provocative stuff.

  When I finish, Jean asks me a few questions about my availability, how much time I can commit to, and whether I’ve ever been convicted of a felony. She says she’ll give me a call. As I’m trying to shuffle quietly down
the corridor toward the exit, I hear a psssst behind me. It’s the kind of noise my ears pick up all the time when eight-year-olds try to pass notes during silent reading. It’s a noise meant to grab someone’s attention in a gentle, sneaky way. It is just so strange turning cautiously around to find the noise maker a white-haired, robe-wearing, curvy-backed old woman. I say hi.

  “Well now, Francine,” she says to me, slowly and like she’s said it four thousand times before, “it’s about time you got your ass out of that whorehouse and in here to see me. It’s about time.” I do that classic head check behind me thing to see if some Francine has appeared behind me in the hall. It’s empty, and I start to say something like no, no, I’m sorry, I’m not. And then I stop. The woman sighs and asks me if I’m going to come on into her parlor or not. I’m frozen. Just then Jean comes shuffling out of her office. She tells me she’s sorry and that Mrs. Jameson is just confused.

  “Let me walk you to the door,” she says. And we’re not even that far away. Mrs. Jameson is still leaning against the door jam of her “parlor,” and unless the batteries in her hearing aids are dead, of course she can hear us. Of course she can hear fat Jean and her loose, uncensored mouth say to me with a harsh, grating tone, “Don’t worry, Annie. I won’t pair you up with anyone delusional.”

  Jesus Fucking Christ. I figure this whole deal might be a bit depressing. Once I get back home I eat a bowl of cornflakes for dinner. I slather them in honey and lactose-free milk and think about Mrs. Jameson in her parlor. Hoping that Francine will actually pay a visit someday.

  “Old folks, Annie? Damn, you are such a sap. But in a good way. Like a cute sap.” There is a long, staticky pause. The heavy breathing of the miles between us. “Sounds like an okay idea, but if you were too busy for Angela Henderson, how do you have time to do this?” I re-explain to him that I wasn’t too busy for Angela Henderson, I think she makes great pigs in blankets and is a totally sweet lady, but I just wasn’t into sitting around and griping about this stupid ride we’re all on. I think I succeeded at least a tiny bit in showing him my side of the story, but I could still sense a bit of hurt in his voice because I had chosen strange old ladies over the wives of the men he was surely growing closer to. Can’t say I blame him too much.

  “So how’s everything? You guys getting along? Anything awful happen lately?”

  “Aww. No not really. Same old tra.27 There was some rumor floating around about Jessica Simpson coming to our base to give a concert. But it didn’t take long for us to figure out it was bullshit. The XO even had to make an official announcement.

  “XO? Kisses? Hugs?”

  “What?”

  “What does XO mean?”

  “Commanding officer. Jeez, Annie. I feel like I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

  “Sorry. But anyway, that’s too bad.”

  “What’s too bad?”

  “About no Jessica Simpson.”

  “Whatever. She’s a ditz. She’d probably call us the navy or something.”

  “Yeah.”

  So basically I’m the worst phone talker ever. And whenever David and I have a conversation like this, after it’s over, I end up sprawling on my bed and inventing fourteen different things I could have said to make it better. Or else I write myself some notes of what we should talk about next time. Maybe when I get my oldie conversation partner, I’ll have all sorts of amusing anecdotes to spout off. I could even pick up some charming 1940s vernacular. What the dickens have you been up to, David? Good heavens, I miss you so, darling. I also resolve to make a cheat sheet (The teacher must always stress the cheat sheet!) with all of David’s abbreviations. And then I won’t waste precious phone time asking for the same old silly definitions.

  On my first day as an official Violet Meadows volunteer, I wake up early and eat Cream of Wheat for breakfast. I think about what having dentures must feel like and if one has ghost memories of the ex-teeth. When I arrive at the home, Jean leads me to the room of my new conversation partner, Mrs. Loretta Schumacher, rattling off facts about the resident like she’s trying to sell me a used car. “She’s (a) ninety-three. Been here (on the lot) for six years now. One of our sharper ones in her nineties (solid engine). Doesn’t stress much (good tires). Keeps her room clean (leather interior). Has moderate arthritis (a shimmy). Diabetes (slow oil leak). I think that’s it. Nice lady. You two should have fun. Here we are.” Jean has that jiggly tricep arm fat (known as the dreaded “chalkboard flab” in my profession), and it quivers as she knocks on the door. Its trembling reminds me that I’m kind of trembling. I don’t even have a moment to consider why I’m nervous because before Jean has a chance to lower her reverberating arm, Mrs. Loretta Schumacher has opened the door and is standing right in front of us like she’s been waiting in this exact place all afternoon.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Schumacher. This is Annie Harper. She’s a volunteer. Here to chat with you for a bit.”

  “How do you do, Miss Harper?” Mrs. Schumacher extends a weathered hand to me and I take it, surprised that it feels soft and robust at the same time.

  “Very well, thank you. Pleased to meet you.”

  “We’ll see about that in an hour or so, sweetheart. Right? Don’t be pleased to meet me until you’ve met me and until you’ve sat here in my lousy room for a bit of time. Huh?” I laugh nervously and steal a look at Jean, who is blank, not amused, probably planning her next four years of vacation days.

  “Okay. Um. Sure.” That is what I actually say. Brilliant, I know. An amazing representation of my oh-so-articulate generation. Jean backs out the door and shuts it with a gentleness that I didn’t expect from her.

  “I have two chairs, you know. Please do take a seat.”

  “Oh. Thank you. Thanks.” I pull a folding chair away from the wall, and it makes this loud sticky sound like it hasn’t moved for years. I imagine a mop being swabbed around it once a week for a decade. There’s this dirty muck crusted around the base: the buildup of solitude. Loretta slowly lowers herself into a wooden rocker by the window. It’s exactly the kind of thing you see in nursing homes in movies. I’m stunned that Hollywood didn’t make up the detail and that Loretta is actually afforded the luxury of a chair that can bring motion into what is probably a nearly stagnant existence.

  “Well,” I say, “Nice day out. Supposed to snow tomorrow.”

  “Do you like poker?” Loretta fires this out all sharp tongue. Like an accusation.

  “Poker?”

  “Yeah, you know. Texas Hold ’Em. Five-Card Stud. Tramps ’n’ Floozies.”

  “Tramps ’n’ Floozies?” I imagine Loretta wavering on the edge of sanity, mixing her card games with the titles of pulpy Western novels she once read. I’m picturing her, all ninety-three years and raisiny, vamped up in some ruffly Western gown with an ace slid seductively down her bodice. She’s asking for another whiskey and I’m smiling. And Loretta sees me smiling, and she’s taking my smile for a yes. Yes, I love poker. She reaches down to her left into a satchel that’s hanging from the armrest of her rocker. I figure she’s pulling up a deck of cards. Tattered, sticky cards that I’ll watch her rigid, unyielding fingers attempt to shuffle properly before dealing them out. And what will we bet? Cough drops? First dibs on the style section of Sunday’s paper?

  Loretta hands me a small piece of black plastic, and as I realize that it’s not a deck of cards at all, she says, “I’ll give you the easy one.” I turn the portable video poker device over in my hands and read its name. Power Pocket Poker. Loretta has pulled a pair of reading glasses from her rocker’s satchel and has already fired up her machine. “Oooh. Pair of queens,” she says.

  And I don’t know what to think about it. We’re not talking. We’re not talking about the old days when she’d make lemonade on Sundays and walk her toddling grandchildren in the park. We’re not flipping through vitamin catalogs and discussing the positive effects of riboflavin on the kidneys. She isn’t smiling a toothy, denture smile and I’m not breaking age
boundaries and transcending generational gaps and laughing recklessly as my youth absorbs into the dull, gray walls. We’re playing video poker.

  “Hey, Loretta,” I say after a minute, “I just got a full house.”

  “I told you that was the easy one. Last month I hit it big. Royal straight flush. Hearts!” We play for another thirty minutes or so, announcing our more daring bets and triumphant hands. And though the beepy-beep-beepness of the games grates on my ears, sounding like the erratic chirp of a faltering heartbeat monitor on some dramatic medical TV show, the way that Loretta says, “Let’s go. Let’s go now, darlin’,” while she presses the deal button is actually kind of nice.

  8

  Today I’m calling my book Without an Artifact, because this is a war that will produce no yellowed envelopes with patriotic stamps and no tiny ration coupons for butter. David and I speak over garbled satellite phone lines and exchange electronic messages that I will probably delete by accident with the latest promotional announcements from Victoria’s Secret.28