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.
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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
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