John Irby's Blog - Posts Tagged "time"
Of Time and Caroline
The real estate agent greeted Sandy Brady with a flimsy smile at the entrance of the escrow office. She had sold his home, and today was her payday.
“Good morning, Sandy,” she said, extending her hand. “I hope you slept well.”
Sandy took her hand. He was slim, of average height, with a silver mine of hair. Thoughtful brown eyes were framed behind rimless glasses.
“I’d like you to meet my son,” he said. “He flew in from Seattle yesterday. Barb Evers, David Brady.”
“Good to meet you,” she said. “Your dad mentioned you several times while we staged his home. I hear you work for Microsoft.”
David was taller than his father. Narrow cheeks and abandoned hair gave him the appearance of a studious college professor.
“Yes, our campus is east of Seattle across the lake. I’m a resource programmer. Hard to explain, but it pays well.”
Another woman approached, high heels clicking on the tiled floor. “Morning, all. I’m Karen.” Her greeting seemed contrived. It said, hurry up please.
“The papers are ready in my office, Barb. Can I fetch coffee for anyone?”
She looked at the two men.
“No, I think we’re fine,” Sandy said, glancing at David.
“I’m good,” David said.
“Okay then,” Karen said. “We need lots of signatures.” She beckoned toward a spacious office.
Sandy listened patiently, and without hesitation or question, leaned forward to sign each document. He was not expert in real estate matters; indeed he had only bought and sold one other home in his life. It was a matter of trust. He assumed these women were as precise in their business as he had been in his. Less than an hour later an electronic transfer of funds from a bank in Denver to Santiago Brady’s bank in Tucson had been completed.
At seventy-six, Sandy presumed he would very likely be dead in six years, a few months past what would be his eighty-second birthday. His annual physicals were mere formalities, brief moments of affirmation by his doctor. As a retired physician and surgeon, Sandy was quite aware of the average life span for American men. Age is just a number some people say. Sandy Brady knew better.
In the parking lot David said, “Would you like to drive her one last time, Papa? I know you’ll miss the Benz.”
A gentle look of bemusement crossed Sandy’s face.
“This was your mother’s car,” he said. “I gave it to her for an anniversary present.”
He smiled, but his eyes revealed a different story.
“I miss her lots more than I’ll ever miss the car. No, Davie, my driving days are over.”
After a quick lunch, David followed his father’s directions and drove straight to the retirement home. To Sandy’s eye it had been overbuilt—an elegant southwestern adobe style, but un-necessarily opulent. The entrance doors were castle-like, twin slabs of wood ten feet high covered with sheets of hammered copper. The interior featured soft desert hues and oversized pieces of Native American artwork, with rich carpeting underfoot. The nearby Catalina Mountains loomed through floor to ceiling windows.
Sandy thought the price was extravagant too, but he’d done well; his pension, social security, and investments easily covered the bases. Besides, he had only six years left. Men of science seldom argue numbers or statistics.
At the entrance counter a young, attractive woman dressed in a burgundy colored skirt and white long-sleeved blouse greeted them. She remembered Sandy from previous visits when he’d made the financial arrangements and toured the building.
She flashed a lovely smile at David who flanked his father.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Brady,” she said. “Today’s your big day. I’ve got everything ready for you. Here are two sets of keys for your room, a copy of our October menu, and a list of this week’s activities.”
She paused, uncertain.
“You don’t need a garage door opener after all?”
Sandy studied her. She seemed so young. A large nametag blared Lauren in bold letters. How old could she be? The timelessness of childhood still clung to her face, like morning sunlight playing hide and seek in a sloped apple orchard. Honey Crisps for cheeks. No worn troubles in her eyes.
“No, I won’t be needing a garage,” Sandy said. “I just now gave my car to my son. I’m strictly a foot soldier now. Up a creek, as they say.”
Lauren, not quite sure how to respond, looked down and shuffled her papers.
David said, “You’ll still get around, Papa. You won’t have to walk.”
Lauren smiled gratefully at David.
“We have three very nice vans, and every week there are resident excursions,” she said.
“There are lots of interesting places around Tucson. Once a month we load up and go out to the casino for the day.” She giggled. “It’s much too far to walk in Tucson’s heat.”
“Indeed,” Sandy said. “I enjoy walking early in the morning before the sun goes full force. Not much on gambling though. I don’t like the odds.”
There was a large clock keeping time behind Lauren on the wall. Sandy glanced up, then at David. “I suppose you’d best get started if you’re going to make Las Vegas before dark. It’s quite a drive from here.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ve plenty of time. I’d like to see your room before I leave.”
“You know where it is, right?” Lauren asked. “Two fourteen.”
She gestured with her head.
“It’s right up those stairs around the corner, or if you prefer, just beyond the stairs is the elevator.” She paused. “Any questions?”
“Are we residents assigned seats in the dining room?” Sandy asked. He spoke the word residents as if it soured his tongue.
Lauren giggled pleasantly, as she might at her grandfather for teasing her about a new boyfriend.
“No assigned seats, Dr. Brady. Sit where you please. There are always plenty of seats.”
David put a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“C’mon, Papa. Let’s check out your room.”
That evening when Sandy entered the spacious dining room he stopped for a moment, took it in. Soft music played overhead. Conversations were muted. Most of the diners were paired up, but here and there, people sat alone at small square tables designed for two—couples—lovers. Each table held a small candle style lamp. It cast a golden glow upon white linen—creating intimacy.
Sandy approached her from the side, took her by surprise.
“Sorry,” he said, “but this seems to be the only seat remaining.”
A boyish grin betrayed his fib. The sprawling dining room was two thirds full at best. “Mind if I sit down? Or will your husband be along?”
Caroline glanced up, fork poised delicately in mid-air. Her voice matched years with her face, both still eager for life. Her dark hair, silver flecked, was bunched, displaying a slender neck.
“He’s in heaven,” she said. “Been there quite awhile. I doubt he’ll mind. He wasn’t the jealous type.”
She smiled mischievously behind delicately painted lips. Sized him up.
“Do you bite?”
“Not yet,” Sandy replied. “But I still have my own teeth, in case I change my mind.”
“Sit down then,” she ordered, “before you drop that plate in my lap.”
He settled in and tinkered with the napkin; surgeon’s hands yet, still steady, unwrapped the utensils without alarming her further. Shyness had always steeped his character, though he did his best to conceal it.
He gazed across the divide at her.
“Did they check your id at the door?” he asked. “I doubt you’re old enough to be in such a joint.”
She smiled. “I’m in my seventh decade. Will that do?”
The table’s proportions seemed more appropriate for a husband and wife who had been eating together for many decades; it was a separator by distance, like a deeply troubled lake between warring villages. There is little need for much conversation after fifty or sixty years of marriage. Stale words already uttered a hundred million times can be spoken with the mouth closed.
A college-age waiter appeared, handsome with a wealth of hair and perfectly aligned teeth. He held out a slender glass of honey-colored liquid.
“Your chardonnay, sir.”
“Thank you, young man,” Sandy said.
He took the wine and set it carefully on the table beside his plate.
“Have you been instructed to call all male residents sir?” Sandy asked.
“Yes, sir. We try our best to be polite.”
“Well,” Sandy said, “I appreciate your prompt delivery, and preferred seat selection, but I much prefer you forget the sir and just call me Sandy.”
“No problem,” the waiter said. “I’ll do my best to remember.”
“And what’s your name?” Sandy asked. “I like to know the names of people who help me.”
“Chance,” the waiter replied. “Mom said she took a chance on Dad when he asked her to marry him. I guess he was kind of rowdy at the time.”
He grinned, showing off those splendid teeth.
“Anything else I can get for you guys?”
“Do you have access to a portable lie detector, perchance?” Caroline asked.
She smiled across the expanse toward Sandy.
“Just kidding. We’re fine.”
A moment later Sandy leaned toward her, bridging the gap.
“He thinks you’re pretty.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
Her eyes were deep blue; they widened now with growing interest—burgeoning curiosity—fabulous and rare qualities.
“It’s a long story, but if you’ve a minute, I’ll explain.”
He held the wine glass up, tipped it toward her with the slightest gesture and took a sip, his eyes level with hers.
“When my son delivered me here this morning I inquired at the front desk if seats were assigned for meals. ‘No, sir,’ Lauren said. ‘Sit where you please.’ So, just now when I approached the buffet line, Chance asked if I intended to sit alone. Well, I’ve had much too much of alone. I told him, ‘I’d like to sit with the prettiest woman in the place. You pick her out while I fill my plate.’”
Caroline smiled, her lips parting easily, created by a lifetime of kindness and love. Her dress was dark, but the oval neckline allowed a flash of white shoulder. The lamplight captured a glimmer of tiny gold links around her neck.
“Did he get it right?” she inquired shyly.
“Spot on. The kid is a genius and has a remarkably keen eye for beauty. I’ve thought all along he should be a casting agent. Hollywood could use his talent.”
“All along?” she asked. “How long have you known him?”
“Close to twenty minutes,” Sandy replied, “but we’re on a first name basis now.”
Her back straightened and she put her fork down carefully astride her plate.
“Maybe I will need that lie detector after all.”
Her eyes never left his. She extended her hand across the table. “I’m Caroline.”
They clasped somewhere near the equator, her hand soft and delicate in his. For the first time, he noticed the embroidered threads of silver lacing her dark hair.
“You can call me, Sandy if you like. My birth certificate says Santiago, but in grade school my friends renamed me Sandy, and I’ve never escaped it. American tongues have little toleration for a four-syllable name. You know how nicknames are. You get one whether you like it or not.”
“Of course,” she said. “I became Cari in school.”
She paused. “I think I prefer Santiago.”
“My mother called me that,” he said. “It sounds nice hearing it again.”
A gritty Madrid accent hijacked her lips. “Don’t let your dinner get cold, San-ti-ah-go. You’ve hardly taken a bite. Food makes us strong, Señor.”
“Caroline, woman of seven decades, you’re much more interesting than this baked potato. I’ve been eating dinner alone on the sofa for fourteen years. Not hungry like I used to be. Couldn’t get enough food when I was growing up.”
He took a sip of wine, stabbed a clump of broccoli, then a bite of chicken.
“You mentioned your son,” she said. ‘Any other children?” A slender finger went to her throat, touched her necklace.
“No, just my boy, Davie. We would have loved a daughter too, but it was not to be. Three sisters up in Seattle, two brothers, both deceased. Nephews and nieces scattered about. No grandkids, far as I know. My son isn’t married. How about you?”
“I have a daughter in Phoenix. She’s married with three kids, two still in college. My son lives in Dallas. He’s divorced and living with a sweetheart of a gal who works for Starbucks.She’s got a thirteen-year-old daughter.”
Caroline took a sip of water, dabbed at her lips with her napkin. She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, hesitated, and then plunged into territory she seldom shared with strangers.
“My Jim passed away seven years ago. He’d just retired a year before, and we had travel plans—Japan, Ireland, London—places we’d read about, and seen on TV. But, that was that. It’s not much fun traveling alone. My daughter has no time for travel. She works full time to pay her kids’ college bills. She twirled her spoon tip into a tiny mountain of tapioca. Dug a cave. Pondered.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what did you do for a living?”
“Doctored up in Seattle,” he said, softly pointing the way north with a nod of his head. “I shared a clinic and had hospital privileges. Looked after people who needed a bit of help. Forty-two years worth. Toward the end I didn’t trust myself with a scalpel. They’re very sharp you know. I thought it best to retire before I cut myself.”
An impish grin flooded Sandy’s face. “So did the scrub nurses and my assistants.”
His eyes found hers across the lake. “How have you spent your life, Caroline?”
This time she didn’t hesitate.“My husband owned a construction company in Scottsdale. When we first got married I taught seventh grade English, but as his business grew he needed my help so eventually I became
his unpaid office manager. We worked and prospered together. After he died I sold everything and moved down here to Tucson. I needed some space between what once was, what might be, and what is.”
She sighed and tipped her water glass, but didn’t drink.
“The years slide by so fast and the rut gets deeper and less interesting each day. How did you end up in Tucson, San-ti-ah-go?”
His eyes glowed with her pronunciation of his name.
“Seattle is famous for its rain, but I never even owned an umbrella. I always thought the sound of it striking the rooftop and windows was well worth the discomfort. I guess I just got tired of the gray skies—gloomy days, cold nights. When she got sick, well, you know. It ends everything. All the dreams and promises are ruined.”
He stared out the window at dark, silent shapes—ageless mountains side by side—joined, yet each still separate. There are no divorces or deaths in mountain ranges.
“I needed some warmth again. Plenty of that here in Tucson.”
Their waiter reappeared with a pitcher of ice water. Caroline smiled up at him as he topped off her glass.
“I haven’t noticed you before, Chance,” she said. “Are you new?”
“No, but usually I only work Sundays. I’m actually a student at the university.”
“What are you studying?” Sandy asked.
“Biology, but I hope to get a job in law enforcement. I want to be a state trooper.”
“That sounds nice,” Caroline said. “A bit dangerous though. Are your parents okay with it?”
“My mom is totally freaked. She wants me to teach high school biology. Don’t really
have a dad. They divorced, like eons ago. He never comes around.”
Caroline leaned back, sighed. “I can understand your mom’s feelings. But, it’s your life.”
“That’s what I keep telling her,” he said. He bent and re-filled Sandy’s water glass. The handsome future officer of the law hesitated, his face coloring. “Are you guys married or anything?”
“We just met tonight,” Santiago replied. “You caused this collision, officer. Not our fault at all. If you’ll recall you picked her out for me.”
Caroline giggled. “Some trooper you’ll be. Accusing people of being married when they’ve only known each other a half hour.”
Chance’s face flamed crimson. “Sorry,” he said. “You look so nice together. Anyway, I’d better get back to my station. Can I get you anything else?”
He fled toward safer ground.
Sandy slid his plate forward. Leaned toward her. Made a proposal.
“Do you own a car, Caroline?”
“I do. Why?”
“I gave mine away this morning, and I might need a ride sometime. I’ve been a reader all my life and I like to visit the library. I once collected books. Just before I sold my home I donated them all to a shelter for battered women.”
He smiled. “I’m willing to buy the gas.”
A long dormant ember, lodged firmly in her heart, flared. Heat came unbidden to her
cheeks.
“I read a fair amount too,” she said, “and the library is nearby. I’ll buy the gas. You treat for lunch. Fair enough?”
Sandy slept well. He’d opened his eyes to the morning light, not an alarm clock. The rooms were small, but carefully designed, making clever use of the available space. He shaved and showered, adjusting himself to the new bathroom. He fixed toast and drank a cup of instant coffee. The morning paper had been delivered just outside his door. He’d just opened it to the sports news when his cell phone rang. He expected his son, reporting safe arrival. He smiled when he recognized Caroline’s captivating voice.
“Good morning, San-ti-ah-go,” she said, relishing each syllable. “Care for a walk? Then we can cruise over to the library if you’d like.”
“I’d like that ever so much, Caroline,” he replied. “I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
“Do hurry,” she said. “We’ve no time to spare.”
The next few weeks were a blur of growing friendship. They ate their meals together. She called and inquired of leg bones for her crossword puzzle. They walked and shared of their lives.
He invited her up to watch movies on his new TV. Heads on opposite ends of her big sofa, they sprawled out side by side. She read of romance, he of murder. He never called her Cari, and she called him only Santiago.
One night he fell asleep on her sofa while reading, and rather than wake him and send him home she covered him with a blanket. She took her lips to his forehead, and then tiptoed into bed. A month had gone by.
In the morning she made French toast while he made coffee. They were comfortable side by side in the tiny kitchen—a small energetic tugboat and sluggish ocean liner—navigating safe waters. He made no mention of his sleepover. It was as unnecessary as in surgery when his extended rubber gloved hand had received the clamp without words being spoken.
They sat across from each other on padded stools at the kitchen counter. She watched him tinker with his plate, arranging it just so.
She waited until he was settled, then asked him a simple enough question. “What do you think of love?”
He looked up from his plate while pouring syrup.
“I think without it our world would be a mess. Why?”
“I was just wondering how it might apply to us.”
He put his fork down, and extended his hand toward hers.
“I’ve not much time, Caroline,” he said.
“You are a doctor,” she said. “If we should add our lifespans together would the time remaining be adequate for love?”
“Only God keeps the calendar of eternity,” he said. “Doctors might buy a moment of time, but that is the best we can do. Though I suspect it is stout, I’ve not yet listened to your heart.”
“Your presence in my life makes it beat faster, Santiago.”
A wellspring came to her eyes and she spoke a sonnet’s fragment from distant memory:
Love’s not Time’s fool though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
He also knew the words by heart and completed Shakespeare’s couplet for her.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
His mind traveled backward in time, something lives cannot do. While his wife’s life had ebbed away he sat beside her hospital bed for three days. He had pulled his chair close and held her motionless hand under the covers and read the sonnets to her time and again as the morphine and relentless pneumonia did their work. Family and friends slipped in and out. Late in the afternoon of that final day as the sun slid out to sea, he had fallen asleep, the slender book in his lap. A nurse gently shook his shoulder.
He looked up.
“She’s gone, Dr. Brady. Just a few minutes ago. I’ll leave you alone now.”
He had crawled up on the bed beside his love and hugged her tight once more. He put his lips to hers once more. He felt her dwindling warmth and mumbled his everlasting love for her once more.
Fourteen years had gone by and he’d not kissed another in all that time.
He stood now, his breakfast forgotten and growing cold. He took Caroline in his arms and felt her uncertain tremble. He kissed her then, good and proper, and she, with stored memories of her own, eagerly kissed him back. A long moment later he stepped back, held her at arm’s length.
“We’ve time enough for love, Caroline.”
by John E. Irby
“Good morning, Sandy,” she said, extending her hand. “I hope you slept well.”
Sandy took her hand. He was slim, of average height, with a silver mine of hair. Thoughtful brown eyes were framed behind rimless glasses.
“I’d like you to meet my son,” he said. “He flew in from Seattle yesterday. Barb Evers, David Brady.”
“Good to meet you,” she said. “Your dad mentioned you several times while we staged his home. I hear you work for Microsoft.”
David was taller than his father. Narrow cheeks and abandoned hair gave him the appearance of a studious college professor.
“Yes, our campus is east of Seattle across the lake. I’m a resource programmer. Hard to explain, but it pays well.”
Another woman approached, high heels clicking on the tiled floor. “Morning, all. I’m Karen.” Her greeting seemed contrived. It said, hurry up please.
“The papers are ready in my office, Barb. Can I fetch coffee for anyone?”
She looked at the two men.
“No, I think we’re fine,” Sandy said, glancing at David.
“I’m good,” David said.
“Okay then,” Karen said. “We need lots of signatures.” She beckoned toward a spacious office.
Sandy listened patiently, and without hesitation or question, leaned forward to sign each document. He was not expert in real estate matters; indeed he had only bought and sold one other home in his life. It was a matter of trust. He assumed these women were as precise in their business as he had been in his. Less than an hour later an electronic transfer of funds from a bank in Denver to Santiago Brady’s bank in Tucson had been completed.
At seventy-six, Sandy presumed he would very likely be dead in six years, a few months past what would be his eighty-second birthday. His annual physicals were mere formalities, brief moments of affirmation by his doctor. As a retired physician and surgeon, Sandy was quite aware of the average life span for American men. Age is just a number some people say. Sandy Brady knew better.
In the parking lot David said, “Would you like to drive her one last time, Papa? I know you’ll miss the Benz.”
A gentle look of bemusement crossed Sandy’s face.
“This was your mother’s car,” he said. “I gave it to her for an anniversary present.”
He smiled, but his eyes revealed a different story.
“I miss her lots more than I’ll ever miss the car. No, Davie, my driving days are over.”
After a quick lunch, David followed his father’s directions and drove straight to the retirement home. To Sandy’s eye it had been overbuilt—an elegant southwestern adobe style, but un-necessarily opulent. The entrance doors were castle-like, twin slabs of wood ten feet high covered with sheets of hammered copper. The interior featured soft desert hues and oversized pieces of Native American artwork, with rich carpeting underfoot. The nearby Catalina Mountains loomed through floor to ceiling windows.
Sandy thought the price was extravagant too, but he’d done well; his pension, social security, and investments easily covered the bases. Besides, he had only six years left. Men of science seldom argue numbers or statistics.
At the entrance counter a young, attractive woman dressed in a burgundy colored skirt and white long-sleeved blouse greeted them. She remembered Sandy from previous visits when he’d made the financial arrangements and toured the building.
She flashed a lovely smile at David who flanked his father.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Brady,” she said. “Today’s your big day. I’ve got everything ready for you. Here are two sets of keys for your room, a copy of our October menu, and a list of this week’s activities.”
She paused, uncertain.
“You don’t need a garage door opener after all?”
Sandy studied her. She seemed so young. A large nametag blared Lauren in bold letters. How old could she be? The timelessness of childhood still clung to her face, like morning sunlight playing hide and seek in a sloped apple orchard. Honey Crisps for cheeks. No worn troubles in her eyes.
“No, I won’t be needing a garage,” Sandy said. “I just now gave my car to my son. I’m strictly a foot soldier now. Up a creek, as they say.”
Lauren, not quite sure how to respond, looked down and shuffled her papers.
David said, “You’ll still get around, Papa. You won’t have to walk.”
Lauren smiled gratefully at David.
“We have three very nice vans, and every week there are resident excursions,” she said.
“There are lots of interesting places around Tucson. Once a month we load up and go out to the casino for the day.” She giggled. “It’s much too far to walk in Tucson’s heat.”
“Indeed,” Sandy said. “I enjoy walking early in the morning before the sun goes full force. Not much on gambling though. I don’t like the odds.”
There was a large clock keeping time behind Lauren on the wall. Sandy glanced up, then at David. “I suppose you’d best get started if you’re going to make Las Vegas before dark. It’s quite a drive from here.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ve plenty of time. I’d like to see your room before I leave.”
“You know where it is, right?” Lauren asked. “Two fourteen.”
She gestured with her head.
“It’s right up those stairs around the corner, or if you prefer, just beyond the stairs is the elevator.” She paused. “Any questions?”
“Are we residents assigned seats in the dining room?” Sandy asked. He spoke the word residents as if it soured his tongue.
Lauren giggled pleasantly, as she might at her grandfather for teasing her about a new boyfriend.
“No assigned seats, Dr. Brady. Sit where you please. There are always plenty of seats.”
David put a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“C’mon, Papa. Let’s check out your room.”
That evening when Sandy entered the spacious dining room he stopped for a moment, took it in. Soft music played overhead. Conversations were muted. Most of the diners were paired up, but here and there, people sat alone at small square tables designed for two—couples—lovers. Each table held a small candle style lamp. It cast a golden glow upon white linen—creating intimacy.
Sandy approached her from the side, took her by surprise.
“Sorry,” he said, “but this seems to be the only seat remaining.”
A boyish grin betrayed his fib. The sprawling dining room was two thirds full at best. “Mind if I sit down? Or will your husband be along?”
Caroline glanced up, fork poised delicately in mid-air. Her voice matched years with her face, both still eager for life. Her dark hair, silver flecked, was bunched, displaying a slender neck.
“He’s in heaven,” she said. “Been there quite awhile. I doubt he’ll mind. He wasn’t the jealous type.”
She smiled mischievously behind delicately painted lips. Sized him up.
“Do you bite?”
“Not yet,” Sandy replied. “But I still have my own teeth, in case I change my mind.”
“Sit down then,” she ordered, “before you drop that plate in my lap.”
He settled in and tinkered with the napkin; surgeon’s hands yet, still steady, unwrapped the utensils without alarming her further. Shyness had always steeped his character, though he did his best to conceal it.
He gazed across the divide at her.
“Did they check your id at the door?” he asked. “I doubt you’re old enough to be in such a joint.”
She smiled. “I’m in my seventh decade. Will that do?”
The table’s proportions seemed more appropriate for a husband and wife who had been eating together for many decades; it was a separator by distance, like a deeply troubled lake between warring villages. There is little need for much conversation after fifty or sixty years of marriage. Stale words already uttered a hundred million times can be spoken with the mouth closed.
A college-age waiter appeared, handsome with a wealth of hair and perfectly aligned teeth. He held out a slender glass of honey-colored liquid.
“Your chardonnay, sir.”
“Thank you, young man,” Sandy said.
He took the wine and set it carefully on the table beside his plate.
“Have you been instructed to call all male residents sir?” Sandy asked.
“Yes, sir. We try our best to be polite.”
“Well,” Sandy said, “I appreciate your prompt delivery, and preferred seat selection, but I much prefer you forget the sir and just call me Sandy.”
“No problem,” the waiter said. “I’ll do my best to remember.”
“And what’s your name?” Sandy asked. “I like to know the names of people who help me.”
“Chance,” the waiter replied. “Mom said she took a chance on Dad when he asked her to marry him. I guess he was kind of rowdy at the time.”
He grinned, showing off those splendid teeth.
“Anything else I can get for you guys?”
“Do you have access to a portable lie detector, perchance?” Caroline asked.
She smiled across the expanse toward Sandy.
“Just kidding. We’re fine.”
A moment later Sandy leaned toward her, bridging the gap.
“He thinks you’re pretty.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
Her eyes were deep blue; they widened now with growing interest—burgeoning curiosity—fabulous and rare qualities.
“It’s a long story, but if you’ve a minute, I’ll explain.”
He held the wine glass up, tipped it toward her with the slightest gesture and took a sip, his eyes level with hers.
“When my son delivered me here this morning I inquired at the front desk if seats were assigned for meals. ‘No, sir,’ Lauren said. ‘Sit where you please.’ So, just now when I approached the buffet line, Chance asked if I intended to sit alone. Well, I’ve had much too much of alone. I told him, ‘I’d like to sit with the prettiest woman in the place. You pick her out while I fill my plate.’”
Caroline smiled, her lips parting easily, created by a lifetime of kindness and love. Her dress was dark, but the oval neckline allowed a flash of white shoulder. The lamplight captured a glimmer of tiny gold links around her neck.
“Did he get it right?” she inquired shyly.
“Spot on. The kid is a genius and has a remarkably keen eye for beauty. I’ve thought all along he should be a casting agent. Hollywood could use his talent.”
“All along?” she asked. “How long have you known him?”
“Close to twenty minutes,” Sandy replied, “but we’re on a first name basis now.”
Her back straightened and she put her fork down carefully astride her plate.
“Maybe I will need that lie detector after all.”
Her eyes never left his. She extended her hand across the table. “I’m Caroline.”
They clasped somewhere near the equator, her hand soft and delicate in his. For the first time, he noticed the embroidered threads of silver lacing her dark hair.
“You can call me, Sandy if you like. My birth certificate says Santiago, but in grade school my friends renamed me Sandy, and I’ve never escaped it. American tongues have little toleration for a four-syllable name. You know how nicknames are. You get one whether you like it or not.”
“Of course,” she said. “I became Cari in school.”
She paused. “I think I prefer Santiago.”
“My mother called me that,” he said. “It sounds nice hearing it again.”
A gritty Madrid accent hijacked her lips. “Don’t let your dinner get cold, San-ti-ah-go. You’ve hardly taken a bite. Food makes us strong, Señor.”
“Caroline, woman of seven decades, you’re much more interesting than this baked potato. I’ve been eating dinner alone on the sofa for fourteen years. Not hungry like I used to be. Couldn’t get enough food when I was growing up.”
He took a sip of wine, stabbed a clump of broccoli, then a bite of chicken.
“You mentioned your son,” she said. ‘Any other children?” A slender finger went to her throat, touched her necklace.
“No, just my boy, Davie. We would have loved a daughter too, but it was not to be. Three sisters up in Seattle, two brothers, both deceased. Nephews and nieces scattered about. No grandkids, far as I know. My son isn’t married. How about you?”
“I have a daughter in Phoenix. She’s married with three kids, two still in college. My son lives in Dallas. He’s divorced and living with a sweetheart of a gal who works for Starbucks.She’s got a thirteen-year-old daughter.”
Caroline took a sip of water, dabbed at her lips with her napkin. She paused for a moment, took a deep breath, hesitated, and then plunged into territory she seldom shared with strangers.
“My Jim passed away seven years ago. He’d just retired a year before, and we had travel plans—Japan, Ireland, London—places we’d read about, and seen on TV. But, that was that. It’s not much fun traveling alone. My daughter has no time for travel. She works full time to pay her kids’ college bills. She twirled her spoon tip into a tiny mountain of tapioca. Dug a cave. Pondered.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what did you do for a living?”
“Doctored up in Seattle,” he said, softly pointing the way north with a nod of his head. “I shared a clinic and had hospital privileges. Looked after people who needed a bit of help. Forty-two years worth. Toward the end I didn’t trust myself with a scalpel. They’re very sharp you know. I thought it best to retire before I cut myself.”
An impish grin flooded Sandy’s face. “So did the scrub nurses and my assistants.”
His eyes found hers across the lake. “How have you spent your life, Caroline?”
This time she didn’t hesitate.“My husband owned a construction company in Scottsdale. When we first got married I taught seventh grade English, but as his business grew he needed my help so eventually I became
his unpaid office manager. We worked and prospered together. After he died I sold everything and moved down here to Tucson. I needed some space between what once was, what might be, and what is.”
She sighed and tipped her water glass, but didn’t drink.
“The years slide by so fast and the rut gets deeper and less interesting each day. How did you end up in Tucson, San-ti-ah-go?”
His eyes glowed with her pronunciation of his name.
“Seattle is famous for its rain, but I never even owned an umbrella. I always thought the sound of it striking the rooftop and windows was well worth the discomfort. I guess I just got tired of the gray skies—gloomy days, cold nights. When she got sick, well, you know. It ends everything. All the dreams and promises are ruined.”
He stared out the window at dark, silent shapes—ageless mountains side by side—joined, yet each still separate. There are no divorces or deaths in mountain ranges.
“I needed some warmth again. Plenty of that here in Tucson.”
Their waiter reappeared with a pitcher of ice water. Caroline smiled up at him as he topped off her glass.
“I haven’t noticed you before, Chance,” she said. “Are you new?”
“No, but usually I only work Sundays. I’m actually a student at the university.”
“What are you studying?” Sandy asked.
“Biology, but I hope to get a job in law enforcement. I want to be a state trooper.”
“That sounds nice,” Caroline said. “A bit dangerous though. Are your parents okay with it?”
“My mom is totally freaked. She wants me to teach high school biology. Don’t really
have a dad. They divorced, like eons ago. He never comes around.”
Caroline leaned back, sighed. “I can understand your mom’s feelings. But, it’s your life.”
“That’s what I keep telling her,” he said. He bent and re-filled Sandy’s water glass. The handsome future officer of the law hesitated, his face coloring. “Are you guys married or anything?”
“We just met tonight,” Santiago replied. “You caused this collision, officer. Not our fault at all. If you’ll recall you picked her out for me.”
Caroline giggled. “Some trooper you’ll be. Accusing people of being married when they’ve only known each other a half hour.”
Chance’s face flamed crimson. “Sorry,” he said. “You look so nice together. Anyway, I’d better get back to my station. Can I get you anything else?”
He fled toward safer ground.
Sandy slid his plate forward. Leaned toward her. Made a proposal.
“Do you own a car, Caroline?”
“I do. Why?”
“I gave mine away this morning, and I might need a ride sometime. I’ve been a reader all my life and I like to visit the library. I once collected books. Just before I sold my home I donated them all to a shelter for battered women.”
He smiled. “I’m willing to buy the gas.”
A long dormant ember, lodged firmly in her heart, flared. Heat came unbidden to her
cheeks.
“I read a fair amount too,” she said, “and the library is nearby. I’ll buy the gas. You treat for lunch. Fair enough?”
Sandy slept well. He’d opened his eyes to the morning light, not an alarm clock. The rooms were small, but carefully designed, making clever use of the available space. He shaved and showered, adjusting himself to the new bathroom. He fixed toast and drank a cup of instant coffee. The morning paper had been delivered just outside his door. He’d just opened it to the sports news when his cell phone rang. He expected his son, reporting safe arrival. He smiled when he recognized Caroline’s captivating voice.
“Good morning, San-ti-ah-go,” she said, relishing each syllable. “Care for a walk? Then we can cruise over to the library if you’d like.”
“I’d like that ever so much, Caroline,” he replied. “I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
“Do hurry,” she said. “We’ve no time to spare.”
The next few weeks were a blur of growing friendship. They ate their meals together. She called and inquired of leg bones for her crossword puzzle. They walked and shared of their lives.
He invited her up to watch movies on his new TV. Heads on opposite ends of her big sofa, they sprawled out side by side. She read of romance, he of murder. He never called her Cari, and she called him only Santiago.
One night he fell asleep on her sofa while reading, and rather than wake him and send him home she covered him with a blanket. She took her lips to his forehead, and then tiptoed into bed. A month had gone by.
In the morning she made French toast while he made coffee. They were comfortable side by side in the tiny kitchen—a small energetic tugboat and sluggish ocean liner—navigating safe waters. He made no mention of his sleepover. It was as unnecessary as in surgery when his extended rubber gloved hand had received the clamp without words being spoken.
They sat across from each other on padded stools at the kitchen counter. She watched him tinker with his plate, arranging it just so.
She waited until he was settled, then asked him a simple enough question. “What do you think of love?”
He looked up from his plate while pouring syrup.
“I think without it our world would be a mess. Why?”
“I was just wondering how it might apply to us.”
He put his fork down, and extended his hand toward hers.
“I’ve not much time, Caroline,” he said.
“You are a doctor,” she said. “If we should add our lifespans together would the time remaining be adequate for love?”
“Only God keeps the calendar of eternity,” he said. “Doctors might buy a moment of time, but that is the best we can do. Though I suspect it is stout, I’ve not yet listened to your heart.”
“Your presence in my life makes it beat faster, Santiago.”
A wellspring came to her eyes and she spoke a sonnet’s fragment from distant memory:
Love’s not Time’s fool though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
He also knew the words by heart and completed Shakespeare’s couplet for her.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
His mind traveled backward in time, something lives cannot do. While his wife’s life had ebbed away he sat beside her hospital bed for three days. He had pulled his chair close and held her motionless hand under the covers and read the sonnets to her time and again as the morphine and relentless pneumonia did their work. Family and friends slipped in and out. Late in the afternoon of that final day as the sun slid out to sea, he had fallen asleep, the slender book in his lap. A nurse gently shook his shoulder.
He looked up.
“She’s gone, Dr. Brady. Just a few minutes ago. I’ll leave you alone now.”
He had crawled up on the bed beside his love and hugged her tight once more. He put his lips to hers once more. He felt her dwindling warmth and mumbled his everlasting love for her once more.
Fourteen years had gone by and he’d not kissed another in all that time.
He stood now, his breakfast forgotten and growing cold. He took Caroline in his arms and felt her uncertain tremble. He kissed her then, good and proper, and she, with stored memories of her own, eagerly kissed him back. A long moment later he stepped back, held her at arm’s length.
“We’ve time enough for love, Caroline.”
by John E. Irby
Life and Death
The poinsettia has died—
I tried.
Followed directions as best I could—
Any fool would.
Bathed it in natural light—
Warm and bright.
Watered it now and then—
Just say when.
Extra Christmas joy it brought—
I thought.
New Years Eve, don’t ever fret —
“A cup of kindness yet.”
Valentine’s Cupid launched his missile—
Made lovers smile.
Easter's promise. He cleansed our sins—
Everybody wins!
Saint Patrick’s Day, March’s say—
Corned beef okay?
Mother’s Day we all know—
Miss her so!
Memorial Day, too high a cost—
Young lives lost.
The poinsettia has died—
I tried.
I tried.
Followed directions as best I could—
Any fool would.
Bathed it in natural light—
Warm and bright.
Watered it now and then—
Just say when.
Extra Christmas joy it brought—
I thought.
New Years Eve, don’t ever fret —
“A cup of kindness yet.”
Valentine’s Cupid launched his missile—
Made lovers smile.
Easter's promise. He cleansed our sins—
Everybody wins!
Saint Patrick’s Day, March’s say—
Corned beef okay?
Mother’s Day we all know—
Miss her so!
Memorial Day, too high a cost—
Young lives lost.
The poinsettia has died—
I tried.
Childhood Remedy
To be young,
And unfettered
of the burdens
and troubles
of life
is a most precious
slice of fleeting time.
nimbleness itself!
innocence personified!
curiosity aflame!
Climbing towering trees,
diving into summer lakes,
building warrior forts,
chasing after brothers,
teasing freckled sisters,
giggling without cause,
and
creating memories
are the enterprise of children.
Let them be.
Celebrate them.
Forgive them.
Time will cure them soon enough.
And unfettered
of the burdens
and troubles
of life
is a most precious
slice of fleeting time.
nimbleness itself!
innocence personified!
curiosity aflame!
Climbing towering trees,
diving into summer lakes,
building warrior forts,
chasing after brothers,
teasing freckled sisters,
giggling without cause,
and
creating memories
are the enterprise of children.
Let them be.
Celebrate them.
Forgive them.
Time will cure them soon enough.
