"Am I in trouble?" Carol asked, shifting nervously in her seat.
"We're not in middle school," Boris said, snickering in his seat beside her, "I'm sure nothing is wrong. Just try and stay calm and collected and we'll get through this together." "I've always been nervous when people in power have wanted to talk to me directly," Carol said, "Always made me certain I had done something awful and was now being chastised for it." "What kind of trouble could you possible get into at a nursing home?" Boris asked. "Oh how quickly we forget the Yogurt Debacle of last year," Burt said, leaning against the wall and Boris nodded. "Alright, fair argument." The door finally opened, and the man in charge of the facility, a Dr. Marvin Handler, entered and sat down behind the desk. He rubbed his forehead for a moment before shifting the papers on his desk, clearing them out of the way so he could pull a file from a drawer on his desk and plop it down in between them all. He finally adjusted his glasses and looked up across at Carol. "You didn't need to bring anyone with you," Dr. Handler said. "I was nervous, the company helps," Carol said. "Well, there's absolutely nothing to be nervous about," Dr. Handler said, "If anything, I'm the one who should retain the right to be nervous, because I'm not exactly quite sure how to go about this. Nothing like this. As you all know by now, a few weeks ago James Gardener died in his sleep. He'd been a resident here for many years, and he was a very beloved person in our community. I know that, Carol, you personally had a report with him, did you not?" "I did, yeah," Carol said, "I mean, we'd kind of fallen out of touch in the last few years, but-" "How do you fall out of touch with someone you live in the same facility with?" Burt asked. "Shut. Up." Carol said, glaring over her shoulder, making Boris and Burt chuckle. "Well, either way, you must've made quite an impression on him, because he's left you everything he had," Dr. Handler said, "These include what's in his room, all his personal belongings, but also what was left of his finances." Carol was, understandably, surprised. She and James had been close, but not recently, so the fact that he still liked her enough to leave all his things, even his finances meager as they likely were, to her was a shock to say the least. Carol exhaled and released the tension in her as she felt Boris rub her back for support. "I'm glad, well, not GLAD, because these are sad circumstances, but I should say I'm relieved I guess that it isn't something worse," Carol said, "Can I trust the home to dole out his wardrobe and such to the men of the facility? Clearly I have no use for mens clothing." "That will be taken care of, of course, if you want us to help," Dr. Handler said, "But, uh, we're going to need your banking information in order to deal with moving his finances over to your own." "Of course, however I can help cooperate I will," Carol said, "How much could he have had anyway, seventy five dollars?" "Actually," Dr. Handler said, opening the envelope and flipping a few pages into the stack, adjusting his glasses again, "he left you the sum of his lifes savings, which amounted to a whopping seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in cash and stocks." The air in the room was sucked out instantly, as everyone stared at Dr. Handler. "Ex...excuse me?" Carol asked, completely blown away by this number. "Hey Carol," Burt said, "Can I borrow some money?" *** "How do you propose I deal with this?" Boris asked, seated on one side of Ellen's hospital bed as Father Kricket stood on the other side of the bed, glancing out the window now and then. Kricket sighed and shrugged. "I think you're doing the right thing, but often times the right thing is frowned upon," Kricket said, "This girl sounds like she's in need of help, and she clearly trusts you to help her because you're who she came to, but at the same time she is a runaway minor, and that could spell trouble for everyone involved. You want my absolute honest to god advice, Boris?" Kricket sat down as Boris nodded. Kricket was in his street clothes, a tan windbreaker, jeans and a black turtleneck. He clasped his hands together between his legs and shook his head. "I think you should contact someone who deals with these sorts of things," Kricket said, "But therein lies the problem that if you do this, and it goes poorly, you'll lose her trust, and when you're the only adult she trusts at the moment, that could further isolate her from adults than she already appears to be." "Jesus," Boris said, leaning back, before remembering he was in the presence of a priest and said, "Sorry." "It's okay," Kricket said, smirking, adding, "I really do think that's what needs to happen here. She isn't your daughter, Boris, much as you might want to protect her as such. She's someone elses child, and there could be serious legal ramifications if you don't address this properly and within a timely manner, but also doing it in such a delicate manner so as not to hurt her feelings." Boris wiped his face with his hand and exhaled, sounding extremely exasperated. He really didn't need the legal trouble, nor did Whittle, but he also didn't want to do wrong by Chrissy, as she had, after all, come to him because she trusted him. He didn't know how to deal with this, and now he was asking for help from a priest. The door opened and Lorraine entered, surprised to see Father Kricket there. "Oh! Hello father," she said as he rose to shake her hand. "Hello Lorraine," Kricket said, "I was just heading out." "I'll see you out," Boris said, standing and walking with Kricket out of the room as Lorraine settled in to tend to their comatose daughter. Heading down the hallway slowly, hands in his pockets, Kricket cleared his throat and looked at the floor as they walked. "Boris, I care about you, I don't want to see anything troubling come your way, that's why I said what I said," Kricket said, "But honestly, I think what you're doing is damned admirable, that's for sure. Most people wouldn't have the guts to do it, and I think you're an excellent example of why we should respect our elderly." "Wow, thanks," Boris said, surprised by Kricket's genuine kindness. "Just, do me a favor, alright?" Kricket asked, turning in the hall to look at Boris straight on now before adding, "Don't get in over your head. Just stay the course and do the right thing, even if it makes some people unhappy." "Which people?" Boris asked. "You'll figure it out as you go," Kricket said, chuckling, patting Boris's arm as he turned back and headed down the hall to the front of the hospital. Boris turned and headed back for Ellens room, where he found Lorraine sitting in what had previously been Krickets seat, reading a magazine. Boris took his chair back and sat down, exhaling loudly. "What was he doing here?" Lorraine asked. "...just giving advice," Boris replied. "About?" "God damn everything," Boris said. *** Carol was standing in the small rock garden where she and James had once had lunch together regularly, and she was looking at a small statue he'd had put in. It was a statue he'd had taken from the backyard of his house, and it featured a little old man holding a lantern, all made of very old stone. She'd always meant to ask what the statue represented, but she'd never gotten around to it, and now she'd never know. Carol hated that she'd kept putting things off especially when she knew there wasn't much time left to get around to them anymore. She heard the sound of rocks being walked on and turned to see Boris coming up behind her. "What're you doing out here?" Boris asked. "Thinking about the money," Carol said, "...I never knew he had money." "You'd think if he'd had that kind of money he would've lived somewhere nicer," Boris said, "Maybe his own place with a private nurse or something." "He liked being around others," Carol said, "He told me that once. He liked being in a home because he'd spent so much of his life feeling alone and disconnected from his peers that he wanted to feel like a part of a community at least once before his life ended." "Christ, what a downer," Boris said, making Carol laugh. Carol crossed her arms as she headed across the rock garden, Boris walking beside her, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. She shut her eyes occasionally and took a few deep breaths of the cool air surrounding them. After a few moments of walking and letting the breeze say a few things in between the silence, Carol finally smiled and looked at Boris. "What would you think if I bought the nursing home?" she asked. "What?" he asked, genuinely shocked. "We talk about it all the time, the state of this place," Carol said, "Things are breaking down, wearing out, and could use a lot of renovations. Hell, even just a mild bit of work could be accomplished by a mere chunk of that change. Why shouldn't I spend what's left of my life making things better for those still living here and those who will someday come in?" Boris nodded, feeling like Carol was a far better person than he could ever hope to be, even if they had the same goals for different people. She wanted to save the people their age, and he wanted to save the children, but both of these goals - despite the age differences - were of the same general concept, really. Protecting life. Improving life. No matter what, they wanted to make things better for others, no matter who they were. Boris looked at Carol and then looked up at the building in front of them. "The gazebo could use some tender loving care, I must admit," Boris said. "I think that's what I'm going to do," Carol said, "It's what feels right. It would be like a parting gift from James to the place he always appreciated, the place he decided was worthy enough for him to choose to spend his last years at. I think that's what James would want." Boris pulled out a small airplane bottle of liquor he'd bought at the drug store on the way back to the home, unscrewed it and took a sip before handing it to Carol. "To James, then," Boris said. "To James," Carol said, taking it and taking a swig herself. "...can we put in a go kart track?" Boris asked. "Boris," Carol said sternly, "Seriously." "Would get people to stop racing electric wheelchairs," Boris said. "Mmm, in that case..." *** Chrissy came into the apartment from school, pulling her bookbag over her head and dropping it to the floor before she noticed Whittle and Boris standing in the living room watching her. She stopped and looked at them, feeling as if she were in trouble for some reason she couldn't ascertain. She lowered her voice, quivering, as she pulled at her ponytail. "What did I do?" she asked softly. "Come with me," Boris said, heading down the hallway, Whittle in tow and Chrissy following them. "What did I do?" Chrissy repeated, and Boris smirked to himself. "You did what a lot of people refuse to do, even as adults," he said, "you made a stand to make your life better for yourself. We will deal with things as they come, but for the time being, you deserve to be praised for your bravery. You refused to be treated like less than who you are, and that's something worth rewarding." Boris stopped in the hallway in front of what had been his room and placed his hand on the doorknob, turning it and opening the door. Chrissy stepped in and looked at the room, which he and Whittle had clearly spent the entire day preparing for her. It was made up like a young girls room, with things they knew she liked in it, scientific posters and a bookshelf for anything she wanted to read and keep. They even bought her a cute little dresser and got her new bedding. It wasn't overly feminine, seeing as Boris could tell Chrissy wasn't that kind of girl, but thanks to Whittle it had a feminine charm to it. Chrissy stopped in the middle of the room and turned back to them. "You guys did this for me?" she asked. "We did, kiddo," Boris said, sitting on the end of the bed, "This is your space now. I'll be sleeping on the couch when I stay over. Sit down." He patted the bed and Chrissy sat beside him. "I know what it's like to feel like you're alone in the world, like you can't trust anyone, even yourself," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, "but you clearly trust Whittle and I, so let us help you, okay? Together, the three of us will navigate this and see how to move forward with this situation. We're not your legal guardians, but we will do whatever we can in order to keep you safe and happy. Now do your homework." Boris patted the top of her head as Whittle handed the bookbag to him, so he could hand it to Chrissy. As they shut the door behind them, exiting back into the hall, Whittle looked at Boris. "First me, now her," Whittle said, "You're pretty good at guiding women for being such an old sack of crap." Boris laughed heartily and nodded, putting his hand on Whittle's back and leading her down the hall. "What can I say? You live this long, you're bound to pick up a few things along the way," he said, "Did anyone ever teach you how to play Cribbage?" "God you are SO old," Whittle said. *** Standing outside, watching the renovation work begin on the front of the home - putting in new large bay windows and a series of beautiful rose bushes out front - Carol, Burt and Boris stood together, each eating from a box of donuts Boris bought on his way to the home that morning and sipping tea and coffee respectively. "I gotta say," Burt said, "This is looking pretty good." "We're going to have nice faculties than the local high schools," Carol said. "Not that hard, considering most of them were built on shut down prisons," Boris said, opening the donut box again, "Hey, who ate my last goddamned bear claw?!" "Bite me, old timer," Burt said. "You're older than me!" Boris shouted. Carol smirked as she sipped her coffee and listened to her friends gripe. Turns out all the old people she'd always known when she was younger had been right. These really were the best years of her life.
0 Comments
A pounding woke Boris early on a Sunday morning, and he groaned at being awake so early. Much to the disbelief of everyone, old people liked to sleep in too. Boris dragged himself out of bed and hobbled down the hallway only to find Whittle already at the door. Boris yawned, nodded at her and she turned the doorknob only to reveal Chrissy standing in the apartment hallway. That got Boris to immediately wake up, and he now walked quickly across the room towards the door.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, "Are you okay?" "...can I come in?" Chrissy asked, and they stepped aside to let Chrissy step inside. She tossed her bookbag on the floor by the couch and then fell face first on the couch, not making a peep. Whittle crossed her arms and looked at Boris, who merely shrugged. "So," Boris asked, "How you doing?" "I'm great!" Chrissy said, muffled through the couch cushions, making them chuckle. "Chrissy, what're you doing here?" Whittle asked, sitting down on the arm of the couch and watching this poor young girl lay motionless face down on her cushions. For a brief moment, Chrissy didn't even respond, but once Whittle was about to speak again, Chrissy finally opened her mouth. "I ran away from home," she said, surprising them both. Boris approached the back of the couch now, leaning over it to look down at her. "In heavens name, what for?" he asked. Chrissy rolled onto her side and looked up at him, this old grandfatherly figure she'd come to know and trust, and she smiled. "Why stay in a house that isn't a home?" she asked. Boris didn't want to openly admit it, but she had a point. *** "I don't care what your reasoning is, we cannot harbor a minor," Whittle said, her voice full of ire that she didn't know where to direct so she was directing it in small bursts towards Boris in his bedroom. He stood, hands in his pockets, calming waiting for her to finish as she continued, adding, "think about it, what would society think? She, a little girl, runs away to live with you, an old man? That'd send us up creep creak without a paddle." "Hey, nobody runs away from home for the fun of it, alright?" Boris said, finally interjecting, "She clearly had a reason. Something is obviously going wrong at home, okay, and it's our job to figure out what it is, because every other adult appears to be failing her and that isn't fair. I won't let another child be failed." Whittle couldn't really understand why he felt this way, but she could see from the pain in his eyes and his shaky voice that he really meant every word. She exhaled and leaned against the wall, running her hands through her auburn hair. "So..." she said, "where do we start?" *** Boris and Whittle were seated in Whittle's car, on the street across from Chrissy's home, an address they'd gotten from the marker written on her bookbag. Boris had his hand deep in a bag of chips they'd picked up at a gas station along the way, while Whittle sipped her coffee. After a while, she shook her head and looked at Boris. "This is ridiculous, we're not social services," Whittle said, "We should bring in someone trained for this sort of thing." "For all we know she came to us because we're not social services. Because we can be trusted," Boris said, "Now is not the time to betray that trust. We just need to watch and make sure nothing questionable is going on around here. Maybe if we can convince her it's not all that bad, then we can get her to go back ho-" As if on cue, the front door was thrown open and a man exited, shouting angrily, as a woman chased out after him, throwing things at him. Whittle and Boris slid down in their seats a bit and continued watching, until finally the man had enough and, turning back to the woman, slapped her across the face. But she didn't back down, instead she grabbed his hair and jerked his head forward, kneeing him in the stomach. After this, they both backed away and he stormed off into his car, started it up and drove off. Boris and Whittle glanced nervously at one another. "I don't think she needs to go home," Whittle said. "No, I think you're right," Boris agreed. Sitting in a nearby diner a few minutes later, each eating an enormous breakfast platter, Whittle couldn't shake the sight of what she'd seen back at that house. Boris asked the waitress for more coffee, thanked her and sipped it before stabbing again at his eggs before glancing up at Whittle, who was nervously chewing on a piece of bacon nonstop. "Anything you want to say about that?" Boris asked, and Whittle finally seemed to snap out of it, looking at him. "I just...I don't do well in those situations, around those situations," Whittle said, "My father wasn't exactly the most approachable guy, and my boyfriend, well...he wasn't physically abusive but he certainly was somewhat psychologically demanding to say the least. Altogether I think the healthiest relationship I've ever had with a man is you, and you're old." "Gee, thanks," Boris said flatly, both of them laughing. "You know what I mean. I just...I appreciate what we have, and I understand why Chrissy feels safe around you, because I feel safe around you too," Whittle continued, sighing, "but we aren't her family, and it's irresponsible of us to just take her in like we are." "It's even more irresponsible to send her back to a place that's hurting her," Boris objected, "Listen, the last time I didn't listen to a kid, they wound up in a wheelchair for most of their life. I will not make the same mistake twice." The coldness in his voice let Whittle know that Boris was being incredibly serious about this, and that she shouldn't push the subject anymore, at least not right now. For the moment, she just accepted that he wasn't going to budge, and that - in light of what they had seen - perhaps he was right, even if only momentarily, and that harboring Chrissy was actually the best course of action. Often, and Whittle knew this from experience, that when a child comes from an angry family, the family usually doesn't even notice (at least not immediately, if ever) when a child runs away because they're so heavily focused on their own infighting. Besides, Whittle knew full well what Boris meant. She knew he was referring to his daughter, and how he felt her situation was his fault, and that was something she didn't even want to begin to approach. So instead, the two sat and ate in silence, knowing that when they returned back to the apartment, they'd have a 3rd party to deal with now. *** It wasn't every day that Carol saw Father Kricket at the home and not being bothered by Boris, but seeing as he wasn't around right now, and Father Kricket appeared to be alone, she took it upon herself to bother him. She approached him in the hallway, as he leaned against the candy machine and chewed a candy bar that was half unwrapped, reading a book while he snacked. As she approached, Father Kricket finally noticed her and smiled. "Where's your partner in crime?" Carol asked, and he shrugged. "Beats me. I'm not his beeper," Father Kricket said. "What are you doing here?" "What am I always doing here?," Father Kricket said, "I'm here preparing last rites. I spend so much time in this nursing home I should just get a room for myself at this point. Maybe when it's time to retire, I'll just move right on in. Already feels like a second home." "Well, if that's your plan of action, let me tell you right now the pudding is terrible and the television channels are all misnumbered. But we do have a pretty robust crocheting group," Carol said, making Father Kricket laugh as he offered her part of his candy bar, which she politely declined; she cleared her throat, folded her arms and asked, "So...who's on the way out?" "Uh, James Gardener," Father Kricket said. "I didn't even know James was sick..." "Friend of yours?" "First person I met when I came here," Carol said, "He's always been a very polite and intelligent man. Lord knows there's even less of those in here than out in the real world." "Senility will do that to a person," Father Kricket said, wrapping his bar back up, stuffing it into his coat pocket and then sighing, "I have to head back in." As Carol watched him head back into the room, she leaned on the wall and chewed on her lip, thinking about James Gardener. Why hadn't she continued talking to him lately? She and James had always been somewhat close when she had been there the first few years, even somewhat romantically entangled, but once Boris arrived she and James somewhat drifted apart. While James found Boris rather abrasive, Carol found him oddly charming and she appreciated that his cynical nature melded well with her own mildly cynical tone. Now James was going to die, and she hadn't even known he had been sick. What kind of friend was she, really? *** That evening, Christy was laying on the couch, nestled up under a large fuzzy blanket and reading a book. Whittle had gone to bed, exhausted by the situation, but Boris came into the kitchen to get a piece of pie and a glass of milk when he noticed Christy was still up. He pulled the fridge open and then, checking the clock on the kitchenette wall, sounded surprised. "It's almost 11 pm," he said, "Shouldn't you be getting to sleep?" "I can't sleep in new places," Christy said. "You'd think the relief of not sleeping in the same awful place would be enough to help ease you into slumber, but I guess I understand that," Boris said, bringing his piece of pie and glass of milk to the couch. She scrunched her legs up to her chest and put her finger in her book as Boris took a seat. He handed her a fork, and she took it happily, taking a bite of the pie. "You're not going to make me go home, are you?" she asked, sounding worried. "Kiddo," Boris said between chews, "I'm certainly not going to make you go back to that. I can't say Whittle will be as on board, but she'll come around. No child should have to live in an abusive household, whether it's abusive to other people in the house or abusive to the child directly. That level of toxicity should never be allowed around children." Christy held her hand out, and Boris handed her his glass of milk. She took a few gulps and then handed the glass back to him before wiping her mouth on her arm and sighing. "...thanks for listening to me," Christy said quietly, "nobody at home ever listens to me. I tell them I need help at school and they ignore me, I tell them I want to see a doctor and they pretend not to hear me. I've just kind of stopped talking at home. It means a lot to have an adult I like actually listen to me." "It's nice to have a kid who appreciates what I have to say actually hear me," Boris said, the two of them smiling at one another; Boris finished his pie, set the plate and glass on the coffee table and looked at Christy, clapping his palms on his knees and asking, "You want to hear a poem? I used to tell my daughter poems to help her fall asleep." "Okay," Christy said, putting her book down and lying back on the couch as Boris tucked her in better and sat beside her. "Remember back in September, when we went out on your roof? When we sat there on the shingles, and we finally told the truth Remember how we pointed at the stars so high above? Shining in the darkest night, used to light our love" Remember back in September, when we gave the stars their names? When we identified them all so that none would be the same We sat there in the Autumn breeze, pointing at each one Knowing we must finish before we saw the birthing sun Remember back in September, when we wrote all of this down? When we had that notebook, pages filled up with our sound Our laughter and our joy as we fell in love with every star Their names ringing on forever more, both so near and far Remember back in October, when you threw the book away? When you told me it was over, that was all you had to say We had named the stars together and we had given life To those little specks of beauty, so stuck there in the night I miss when would name the stars, I miss the stars as well Carol, Joyce, Burt, Earl, Charlie, Greg and Belle I miss our love and happiness, and I miss what we'd dream of But at least it's true, that even without you, I'll always have the stars above." Christy noticed tears welling up in his eyes, and she smiled as she shut her eyes and cozied up into her pillow. "That was really pretty," she said, "Thank you." He kissed her head and, after taking his dishes to the kitchenette and washing them, headed back to his bedroom. He shut the door and sat down on the end of his bed, thinking about Ellen, and burying his face in his hands, crying quietly. He didn't care if people hurt him, but he'd be damned if he was going to let yet another little girl be hurt by the world. That much he swore to himself. As Boris laid on his bed and looking up at the ceiling, he decided then and there that he'd give his bedroom to Christy if she was going to continue to stay there, and he'd sleep in the living room. He was the earliest to wake up anyway, it was only fair to give her her own private space. And maybe he'd buy some glow in the dark stars to plaster the ceiling with too, before giving her the room. Just so they could name them together. |
About
Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
|