By: Wayne Scheer Jack Ruszkowski sat by himself in a nearly empty restaurant blowing on his lukewarm coffee. He took a noisy sip and replaced the cup to its saucer, pleased nothing spilled down his shirt. Staring at the age spots on the back of his unsteady hands, he looked up at the empty seat across from him and spoke aloud. "Remember when freckles used to be cute?" A heavyset, middle-aged woman and her husband seated at a table nearby turned his way. The woman smiled at Jack in the closed lip manner usually reserved for children. "Sorry," he said, with a wave of his hand. He returned to his already cold omelet. Yellow had oozed from it when he took his first bite, and the melted cheese and egg now congealed on his plate. Edith's omelets never ran, he thought. Picking at it in a futile attempt to avoid the onions, he tried recalling if he had told the waitress no onions. He and Edith rarely went out for breakfast. Fifty-two years, he thought, if we were home, Edith made breakfast. "What?" he could hear her ask. "We need to pay someone to scramble an egg for us? If I go out, I want something I don't make at home." Now Jack ate most of his meals out. The waitress refilled his coffee, smiled, asked if he wanted anything else and placed the bill on the table before he could answer. He stared in her direction and let his eyes follow her as she walked away. Nice legs, he thought. A little heavy, but nice. Good curve to her ass and hips. He imagined Edith shaking her head. "What am I going to do with you?" Adding cream to his coffee, he stirred it, watching the steam rise and disappear. He returned to his runny omelet. The clock on the wall showed 8:15. The whole day lay before him. After sipping a little more coffee, he stood up, uttering an involuntary, "ugghh," as his joints snapped loud enough to again attract the attention of the middle-aged couple. He began his trek to the cash register, dragging his feet. His ankles stiffened when he sat for a while. Already, he thought, I do the old man shuffle, with my own musical accompaniment. He considered offering his little joke to the middle-aged couple staring at him, but feared they'd only offer another patronizing smile. The waitress who had served him now stood behind the register. He handed her the check and the exact sum of money with which to pay it. She asked if he enjoyed his meal. Although he knew she didn't care, he told her anyway. "The omelet was a little runny. They should cook the eggs more." He saw her smile and sensed she was going to wish him a good day, without hearing what he had said. Then a look of recognition came over her face. "Next time, honey, say you want your eggs well done." The condescension in her voice annoyed him. "Who likes runny eggs in an omelet? I never knew I had to say 'please cook the eggs?'" "Have a nice day," the waitress said. A nice day, he thought, as he pushed open the restaurant door and felt the fresh morning air. Yes, it's a nice day. I should walk. He knew his ankles would feel better after a walk. His back, too. Besides, there was no reason to rush home. Instead of turning right and walking less than one block to his apartment, Jack turned left, passing Wakeman and Son Florist. He used to buy Edith a dozen red roses for her birthday, every October 14. On her fiftieth birthday, he had Mr. Wakeman make a special arrangement for her. It cost him twice as much as the roses. "They were out of roses?" Edith asked. "This is nice, too." He never bought her anything but a dozen roses after that. His ankles felt much better. He could bend his foot now. All things considered, he was in pretty good shape for a man of seventy-five, he thought. Edith would have turned seventy-five last October. They planned a cruise to the Bahamas to celebrate. That was before the doctor told them the cancer had spread. He remembered talking of their plans for her seventy-fifth as he and their son, Darren, sat with her in the hospital. "One day you plan a trip. The next day?" He never finished the sentence. Instead, he broke down. He had never cried in front of his son before. He didn't cry at the funeral. That was nearly a year ago. He cried plenty since. He continued walking down Brandt Street until he came to the corner of Brandt and Stanton, and turned right on Stanton. This was always a nice street, he thought. Old trees, probably oaks. Soon after he retired he bought an identifying guide to plants, trees and flowers. "It would be good to know what to call the different plants we see," he told Edith. "Maybe next I'll get a bird book." "What difference does it make?" Edith asked him. "We live in the city." He and Edith never talked about it again. For some reason, a wave of sadness came over him. He felt it in the back of his throat, and held back tears. "Of all the things in my life to regret? Not learning the difference between an oak and an elm." He looked around to make sure no one overheard him talking to himself. Now he turned the corner to see the flowers people had planted in the little strips of land separating the well-kept two story brownstone apartments from the sidewalk. He looked up and realized he was on Bloom Street. "A good name," he said aloud, smiling. "Good day to you," a young man wearing a gray suit and carrying a briefcase said as he hurried by. Jack wanted to stop the man and show him all the flowers that people had planted and how the name of the street was Bloom Street, but he knew the man would just smile politely and say something like, "Well isn't that interesting," not wanting to talk with a crazy old man. He missed being able to go home and tell Edith what he had observed. She wouldn't care either, he knew that, but at least she'd listen. Then she'd tell him what her sister had said about her daughter-in-law, and he wouldn't care, but he'd listen. That was what he missed most about marriage. It wasn't what he and Edith talked about; it was caring about the other person enough to listen. Now no one listens, even the doctors. They're polite, but they make it clear they have better things to do than to do than to listen to an old man. Everyone's in a rush, he thought. Off to do the next thing. It's not until you don't have a next thing you have to do that you begin to see the flowers on Bloom Street. Jack recalled having this same thought the first Sunday after he retired. He had begun thinking about the long workweek ahead of him. Then he remembered he had nothing planned for Monday and he took a long, deep sigh of relief. That was how he should feel now, he thought. After spending almost six months caring for Edith as she wasted away, he now had nothing to do. Until this moment, he had felt empty and lost. For the first time since her death, he admitted to himself that he felt relieved. "I have nothing I have to do today," he said aloud. Two young girls jumping rope looked at him with their heads tilted sideways. One pointed her index finger to her head and made |
circles in the air. They both laughed.
He laughed with them, and for a moment considered asking if he could skip rope, too. But he didn't want to intrude on their fun. Besides, he knew he'd probably break his neck if he tried. Jack guessed he had been walking for almost an hour. He was a little tired, but he still felt no reason to go home. Instead, he decided to cut down Elton Boulevard, a neighborhood of older brick apartment buildings. He hadn't been down that street in years. He remembered a recurring nightmare he used to have as a kid. He'd be walking home from school or church, something he'd done a million times, and suddenly the streets all seemed different and he'd be lost. He wasn't afraid of that happening now. Not yet, at least. He had delivered milk in this neighborhood for over thirty years. He knew it like the back of his own hand. Of course, he still saw the back of his hand as smooth and firm. With freckles, not age spots. Ahead of him, carrying a bag of groceries, was Mrs. Hegel. Sam Hegel and, what was her name? Karla? They went to the same church as he and Edith. That was a long while ago. Sam was dead for what? It must be four years now, at least. "I see you talking to yourself," she said, laughing. "Your lips are moving." He smiled, only a little embarrassed, and would have tipped his hat if he wore one. He felt so good seeing a familiar face. "It's been a long time, Karla. How are you?" She smiled back. "So long, you forgot my name. It's Katherine. My friends call me Katie now." They laughed and tried to remember the last time they saw one another. "It was in church. Before Sammy got sick," she said. "I remember how you and Sammy would sleep every Sunday morning. Edith and I would just shake our heads." She smiled. "How is Edith? I haven't seen her in some time." Jack lowered his eyes. "Edith passed almost a year ago." "Oh, I'm so sorry." She reached out and touched his arm reassuringly. Jack felt a shiver. He had forgotten how long it had been since he felt the hand of a woman who wasn't taking his blood pressure. "I stopped going to St. Peter's," she continued. "Too many memories there. I thought it would do me some good to start over. Besides, even old friends aren't comfortable with a single woman. Afraid I might steal their husbands." She smiled, showing a set of unnaturally white teeth. Jack watched her shift the bag of groceries from one arm to the other. "Here. Let me take that bag," he said, reaching for it. "I live just two doors down," she said, clutching the bag to her chest. "Then even at my age I can manage." He took the bag from her. "Managing is what I do now." He meant it as a joke, but he feared it sounded more like a whine. When they got to her apartment, she suggested he come in for a cup of coffee. "That would be good, but I just had some at the diner on Brandt Street." He wondered how honest he could be with her. He decided to go for it. "What I really need is to use your bathroom. It was almost an hour ago when I had coffee." "An hour? You must be busting. Come in." She fumbled with her purse until she found the key. The apartment was overheated, but inviting. The walls were painted a light rose color. It felt like a home, neat and clean, but a faint odor of yesterday's pot roast lingered. That's what he missed in his own home. It had been a long while since he smelled yesterday's dinner. "Put the bag down on the counter," she said pointing to the kitchen. "And go use the bathroom." He did as she said, observing how spotless the kitchen was except for one coffee cup in the sink. She showed him the way to the toilet. "Please forgive the mess. I wasn't expecting company." She spoke in a voice that appeared to Jack to be begging for a compliment. He offered one. "Mess? You could eat off the floors. Your home is beautiful, Katherine." "Katie." In the bathroom, Jack was careful to lift the toilet seat and aim at the side of the bowl, not directly into the water, to avoid making too much noise. Afterwards, he washed his hands, unsure if he should dry them on the towels folded neatly beside the sink. Knowing he could never refold them properly, he chose to shake off the excess water and wipe his hands on the side of his pants. Taking a comb from his pocket, he combed his hair from one side to the other in an effort to cover his bald spot. "I put up a fresh pot of coffee," Katie said. "At least it'll taste like coffee, not like what they serve at the diner." She had already laid out a plate of butter cookies, the ones with a little cherry in the middle that Edith used to buy at Barrone's Bakery. Jack had never thought of Katherine Hegel, Katie, as an attractive woman, but he never really looked at her before. Now he saw a woman who kept herself looking as good as she could. Heavy, but not fat, she was the kind of woman Jack's generation called "ample." Jack now found her attractive. As they spoke about their new lives since the death of their mates, Jack heard in her voice sadness, but not self-pity. She had gone through dark times, she told him, but now she preferred light. As if to underscore her point, Jack noticed she had opened the blinds when he was in the bathroom. The morning sun peeked in through the slats, tentatively at first, but now light filled the apartment. He also noticed something about Katie he had never seen before. A small butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. He couldn't help but stare at it. "This was my present to myself on the one year anniversary of Sammy's death. It reminds people there's more to me than just being a widow." She paused and winked at Jack. "If Sammy ever knew I got it, he'd die all over again." Jack wasn't sure how to react, but when he saw Katie's openmouthed laugh, he relaxed and laughed with her. He even shared with her his observation that there were more flowers on Bloom Street than anywhere else in the neighborhood. She appeared impressed, saying she'd have to look the next time she went that way. "If you like flowers," she said, "we should go to the Botanical Gardens. You'd love it. Thursday, after four, admission is free for seniors." When it was time to go, Jack asked her if she'd like to join him for supper at China Inn. Instead, she suggested he come back tonight for a pot roast she had in the refrigerator. "I have so much left over, it would be a shame to waste it." On his way home, Jack saw two boys, about ten, playing catch with a tennis ball. "Over here," he yelled to the boys. "Let's see how good your arm is." The boy holding the ball threw it over his head. Jack ran back a few steps and jumped as high as he could, his arms extended the sky. To his amazement, he felt the ball land squarely in the palm of his hand. "Nice catch, Mister," the boys shouted as he threw the ball back to them. He put just enough behind his throw to remind himself that he still had some life left in the old arm. |