The children came through the back door with the old man in tow.
“Who the fuck is this?” Angelica asked.
“We found him,” Timothy explained.
“Found him? Where?”
“At the store,” said Marta.
“Outside the store. On a bench, in the shade,” said Maggie.
“Can we keep him? I think we should keep him,” said Foster.
They put the old man in a chair at the kitchen table. His blue eyes were watery and empty.
“Caroline,” he said, when he saw Angelica.
The old man smelled of camphor.
“Why the hell did you bring him here?” Angelica asked.
“We told you. He was on a bench. No one came out to get him, so we figured he was lost.”
“Sir, what’s your name?” Angelica asked and peered hard at the old man.
“Caroline,” he said.
“Great. Did you check his wallet?”
“Doesn’t have one,” said Timothy. Timothy was the most resourceful of them all.
“He gave me a lollipop. There are more, if you want one,” said Foster.
Sure enough, the old man had three lollipops in the pocket of his bathrobe.
Maggie put the groceries away. Angelica saw that they’d forgotten the laundry detergent and the mayonnaise. And the eggs. She sat down. The day had become difficult.
“Well, he obviously wandered away from somewhere, so someone must be looking for him,” said Angelica.
“They won’t find him. We’ll hide him, and then say he’s our grandfather, or something,” said Foster.
“Are you out of your fucking mind? Where’s he going to sleep?” Angelica asked.
“With us. He can have the top bunk, and we’ll share the bottom one,” said Maggie.
“He might fall out of the top bunk. Better put him down below,” said Marta.
“Caroline,” said the old man.
“Sir, who is Caroline?” Angelica asked.
The old man smiled. His teeth were perfectly white and strong.
“Is Caroline your wife? Is Caroline looking for you? Can we call Caroline?” Angelica asked.
The old man looked at her vacantly. She might as well have been speaking Greek. She had to do something, but she had no idea what. The old man whimpered. He sounded like a puppy looking for its mother’s milk. Angelica ordered the twins to open and heat a can of soup. They argued about whether split pea or tomato was best. They settled on tomato. Foster tied a dish towel around the old man’s neck. They put the bowl of soup in front of him. The old man looked at it, and whimpered.
“Help him, then. Jesus,” said Angelica.
Timothy lifted a spoonful of soup. The old man opened his mouth like a toddler would. He took the soup, swallowed, and opened his mouth again. He consumed the entire bowl.
“Maybe he ran away because he was hungry,” Foster said.
“He didn’t run away, stupid. He wandered off. Someone didn’t lock the door,” said Angelica. Then she realized that a search might be underway, and bulletins issued about the old man being missing. She went into her father’s den and turned to the news. A tanker truck had exploded on an overpass in Indiana. A hurricane was speeding towards the coast of North Carolina. The President gave a speech about the economy to a crowd of angry, sullen-looking people. Closer to home the local teacher’s union had rejected the latest contract proposal. No one was looking for the old man.
Mr. Dugan opened his eyes. “What’s up? I thought I heard voices,” he said.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
“I’m ready for some lunch.”
“I’ll bring it to you in here.”
“That’s okay. I need a little stretch.”
“Dad, don’t.”
“What? Stretch?”
Angelica explained about the old man. Mr. Dugan sat up and stared at the worn rug at his feet. He nodded. He cleared his throat.
“You did the right thing,” he said.
They both went into the kitchen. The old man’s head had drooped down towards his chest. He snored loudly. Mr. Dugan said that if there were any soup left, he’d appreciate a nice bowl with a slice of buttered bread. Thaddeus stood by the old man’s side, sniffing his leg. The other children were all seated at the table, each in his usual chair. The chair they’d put the old man in was Mrs. Dugan’s. Angelica prepared her father’s lunch. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Luann had asked, anything? Angelica quickly wrote back, no!
“I think we should vote,” said Foster.
“On what?” asked Maggie.
“On whether or not we’re going to keep him.”
“We can’t keep him. He’s not ours,” said Mr. Dugan. “I’ll call the police after lunch. They’ll handle it.”
“No! Daddy don’t do that. Please!”
“Now, listen. This is a person, not a pet. Even if he were a pet, we’d have to find out if he belonged to someone else. In the case of a person, you can be well-assured that he does, in fact, belong to someone else.”
Mr. Dugan was proud of his speech. He was very sorry his wife wasn’t there to hear it. The old man went on snoring. The twins got up from the table.
“Oh, well,” said Marta. “Too bad.” They went into their room. The boys stayed behind. Mr. Dugan called the police. His voice was bright and polished. He seemed happy. Angelica wasn’t happy. She was gripped by a growing sense of alarm.
“Someone will be along in a while,” said Mr. Dugan.
“Do they know who he is?” asked Angelica.
“No. They said it happens all the time. The nursing home might not even know he’s gone, yet.”
“Assholes.”
“Exactly.”
The old man lifted his head and stared around him. He blinked. Mr. Dugan helped him from his chair, and guided him into the living room.
“Come on, Pops. You’ll be more comfortable in here. There you go. Want your feet up? No? Okay. Just sit there, and stay out of trouble.”
Angelica sat down next to him. The old man fussed. He plucked at the belt of his bathrobe and moaned.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Angelica. She’s was afraid he was sick, or about to die. That wouldn’t be good, if he just up and died on them. Mr. Dugan left and returned quickly with glass of amber liquid.
“Maybe he needs a little nip,” said Mr. Dugan.
“What if he’s on medication?” asked Angelica.
“Won’t hurt him.” Mr. Dugan brought the glass to the old man’s lips. The old man tasted the liquid. His eyes squinted and a gurgle rose from his throat. Mr. Dugan gave a thumb’s up. The old man nodded. He gave the old man another swallow. Timothy and Foster wandered into the living room. They were bored, now. The old man didn’t interest them anymore. Timothy picked up his coloring from yesterday, and Foster considered putting another set of Band-Aids on his eyes, then decided to wrap Thaddeus’s toes together with masking tape. He’d done that before, and Thaddeus didn’t seem to mind at all.
The old man held Angelica’s hand. His skin was very smooth, as if it hadn’t touched anything rough in years and years. How long had he been like that? What, if anything, did he remember of his past?
“Well, I’m going back to my den for a little while, so you just sit here with him,” said Mr. Dugan
“What if he needs to go to the bathroom?” asked Angelica.
“You better hope he doesn’t.”
The old man had settled down. He fell asleep once more. Angelica’s phone buzzed. It was Luann.
going to the mall. want to come?
The old man’s grip was surprisingly tight, so Angelica had to type with only one hand.
can’t.
why?
grandpa’s here.
oh. text me later.
k.
Timothy got tired of coloring, and went up to his room. Foster doodled on the back of an unopened bill. Thaddeus padded by, slightly impaired by the tape. Gradually, Ang
elica relaxed. She wondered what Dwayne was doing. She could text him and say, guess whose hand I’m holding right now? Then she wouldn’t explain, and look sly when she saw him at school. That might shake him up. Dwayne needed shaking up. Dwayne was too laid back. She wondered what the old man was like when he was younger. Maybe he was as dull as toast until Caroline came along. Then Caroline turned his head. Caroline made him change his mind about everything. He went on breathing in a deep, steady rhythm. He might live quite a few more years, Angelica thought. If he was well cared for, that is. Looking after an old man like that wouldn’t be so hard, except for the bathroom issue. It occurred to her that wiping someone’s ass might not be the easiest thing in the world.
The old man stirred, opened his eyes, and focused them hard on Angelica. He smiled. He leaned towards her, and planted a dry kiss on her lips. In a thin, wobbly voice he said, “Our love could light the world.”
Eventually the police arrived and escorted the old man out. Angelica held his hand until the very last minute. He was a resident of the Clearview nursing home, only a half-mile away. An employee of the nursing home had come in a separate car and told Angelica about the service she’d performed that day, and how heart-warming it was to see a young person be so caring and responsible. Mr. Dugan emerged from his den and stood with Angelica and the other children on the front porch and waved good-bye. Angelica went to sit on her bed and think. Her mother would be home the day after tomorrow, and school would start the week after that. Time seemed like a slow, lazy river they were all floating along. Only the river in the old man’s heart had flowed backwards, returning him to Caroline, whoever she was. To love someone so much that you’d never forget her, even when you’d forgotten everything else. That was something. That was worth having. As she checked her phone again to see if Dwayne had texted her, already knowing that he hadn’t, she decided that one day, no matter what, she would.
Anne Leigh Parrish’s short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Clackamas Literary Review, The Pinch, American Short Fiction, PANK, Knee-Jerk Magazine, Prime Number Magazine, C4, Eclectica Magazine, Storyglossia, Bluestem, and r.kv.r.y., among other publications. Her awards include The Pinch 2008 Literary Award in Fiction for “Surrogate”; First Place in the American Short Fiction 2007 Short Story Contest for “All The Roads That Lead From Home”; and First Place in the 2003 Clark College Fiction Contest for “Fance.”
For more information about Anne and her work, visit her website at www.anneleighparrish.com.
Cover artist Lydia Selk lives in Washington State with her husband. He gave her a digital camera about six years ago. That gift ignited a passion. She tries to capture tiny stories whispered from abandoned and decaying objects, from trees in the forest, or from the back alleys in her hometown. See her work at www.flickr.com/photos/lydiafairy.
All the Roads That Lead From Home Page 16
