Mondays had promised a fresh start and the chance that a simple idea would spark a blaze of innovation. His role in the invention of touch-tone service had been exciting at the time, but the Princess phone was nothing compared to the BlackBerry. Now
that
was an impressive device, though altogether too intrusive. Too bad he was past needing one. At his stage of life it would be merely an affectation.
Twenty-one years into his retirement, Mondays held another sort of excitement — an afternoon of bridge with Betty, Phyllis, and Earl. They never missed, except when struck so badly by that gastro thing that they couldn’t make it through a hand without rushing to the toilet. Last night, his belly had churned like a cement mixer. He lay there terrified he was going to be up and down again, soiling his bed, messing the floor, getting poop on his scooter. But nothing came of it. He’d managed toast and a bowl of the chef’s lukewarm soup for lunch. One day, Art hoped, Nick would get it together and serve his soup piping hot.
He glanced out the windows at the ice and snow pushed into grimy piles at the edge of the parking lot. He rubbed his burning shins and shifted his feet on the footrest of his scooter. Winter made him wistful about his curling-club days, before he turned seventy and his knees went bad. He’d loved the heart-stopping strategy on the rink, the cold beers afterwards in the cozy bar. Too bad his local club had never taken up wheelchair curling. He’d love to try it. But not among strangers.
“Arthur? Arthur, stop daydreaming,” said Phyllis in her best Latin teacher voice. “Are you going to answer my three hearts?”
“Ah . . .” Art sat up straight and studied his hand. He added up his points again. Not enough to counter with four hearts. It would be safer to let Phyllis stay at three. Yes, she could probably make three hearts. Not enough for game, but better to be safe than sorry when Phyllis was your bridge partner. “I’ll pass.”
Phyllis fixed Earl with her uncompromising gaze. “What about you, Crabtree?”
“I’ll pass, too,” said Earl.
Earl must have a pretty weak hand. He usually enticed Phyllis, who was competitive to the end, to bid higher than she should. Then he’d laugh when she started swearing, in Latin of course, at not making her contract.
A high-pitched screech pierced the air. Then another, then the jerky, low-pitched moans of uncontrolled sobbing. Art dropped his cards face down on the table. He didn’t need to look to know what was happening at the far side of the common room. Melvin’s outbursts were becoming more frequent these days.
The poor soul, his face black and blue from falling out of his wheelchair last week, was shouting through his sobs. Once he got started there was no stopping him. Always the same words, over and over, like a mantra. “Never saw them. Never saw them. I tell you, I never saw them.”
Two aides rushed to Melvin’s side. They shushed him, patted his hands, and smoothed his wild hair. The more they patted, the louder his mantra. The pair glanced nervously around the room. They must be watching for Gloria, expecting her to sweep in and escalate Melvin’s sobbing with her nursery-school patter. Her high-pitched prattle never settled anyone, just made them feel angry at being coddled. Art often wondered how Gloria ever got into this business in the first place. She had neither the temperament nor the organizational skills. She should have stuck with cleaning houses and keeping books. Her husband, Gus, was okay. His smile was genuine and he was an imaginative handyman. He could fix anything with a piece of wire and a roll of duct tape. Problem was, his low-cost repairs never lasted longer than a week.
One aide plopped Melvin’s tartan blanket on his lap while the other wheeled him briskly around the corner toward the elevator and the seclusion of his room behind the Mountain Wing’s locked door, one floor up. Art seldom went up there.
that
was an impressive device, though altogether too intrusive. Too bad he was past needing one. At his stage of life it would be merely an affectation.
Twenty-one years into his retirement, Mondays held another sort of excitement — an afternoon of bridge with Betty, Phyllis, and Earl. They never missed, except when struck so badly by that gastro thing that they couldn’t make it through a hand without rushing to the toilet. Last night, his belly had churned like a cement mixer. He lay there terrified he was going to be up and down again, soiling his bed, messing the floor, getting poop on his scooter. But nothing came of it. He’d managed toast and a bowl of the chef’s lukewarm soup for lunch. One day, Art hoped, Nick would get it together and serve his soup piping hot.
He glanced out the windows at the ice and snow pushed into grimy piles at the edge of the parking lot. He rubbed his burning shins and shifted his feet on the footrest of his scooter. Winter made him wistful about his curling-club days, before he turned seventy and his knees went bad. He’d loved the heart-stopping strategy on the rink, the cold beers afterwards in the cozy bar. Too bad his local club had never taken up wheelchair curling. He’d love to try it. But not among strangers.
“Arthur? Arthur, stop daydreaming,” said Phyllis in her best Latin teacher voice. “Are you going to answer my three hearts?”
“Ah . . .” Art sat up straight and studied his hand. He added up his points again. Not enough to counter with four hearts. It would be safer to let Phyllis stay at three. Yes, she could probably make three hearts. Not enough for game, but better to be safe than sorry when Phyllis was your bridge partner. “I’ll pass.”
Phyllis fixed Earl with her uncompromising gaze. “What about you, Crabtree?”
“I’ll pass, too,” said Earl.
Earl must have a pretty weak hand. He usually enticed Phyllis, who was competitive to the end, to bid higher than she should. Then he’d laugh when she started swearing, in Latin of course, at not making her contract.
A high-pitched screech pierced the air. Then another, then the jerky, low-pitched moans of uncontrolled sobbing. Art dropped his cards face down on the table. He didn’t need to look to know what was happening at the far side of the common room. Melvin’s outbursts were becoming more frequent these days.
The poor soul, his face black and blue from falling out of his wheelchair last week, was shouting through his sobs. Once he got started there was no stopping him. Always the same words, over and over, like a mantra. “Never saw them. Never saw them. I tell you, I never saw them.”
Two aides rushed to Melvin’s side. They shushed him, patted his hands, and smoothed his wild hair. The more they patted, the louder his mantra. The pair glanced nervously around the room. They must be watching for Gloria, expecting her to sweep in and escalate Melvin’s sobbing with her nursery-school patter. Her high-pitched prattle never settled anyone, just made them feel angry at being coddled. Art often wondered how Gloria ever got into this business in the first place. She had neither the temperament nor the organizational skills. She should have stuck with cleaning houses and keeping books. Her husband, Gus, was okay. His smile was genuine and he was an imaginative handyman. He could fix anything with a piece of wire and a roll of duct tape. Problem was, his low-cost repairs never lasted longer than a week.
One aide plopped Melvin’s tartan blanket on his lap while the other wheeled him briskly around the corner toward the elevator and the seclusion of his room behind the Mountain Wing’s locked door, one floor up. Art seldom went up there.