The Dying of the Light

By Donald J. Richardson

As a community volunteer for several years, I have come to know many elderly people, to listen to the stories of their lives, and to witness their needs and complaints. Some are no longer with us, of course, but others soldier on, enduring lifes challenges, suffering ungrateful children, and combating an indifferent society.

One important discovery I have made is that it is elemental to listen. The listening is the best and most affirmative part of my service to the elderly. Hardly anyone actually cares what they say or what they think. It is necessary that their voices be heard. What I have tried to do in The Dying of the Light is to restore their voices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 20, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449033231

Donald J. Richardson

Although he has long been eligible to retire, Donald J. Richardson continues to (try to) teach English Composition at Phoenix College in Arizona. He defines his life through his teaching, his singing, his volunteering, and his grandchildren.

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© 2010 Donald J. Richardson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/19/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4490-3323-1 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-3324-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-3327-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-3323-1 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009910262

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

For all the Caregivers

Chapter One

The old man shuffled along the sidewalk. He walked as if on ice, with his head bent over, his chin almost touching his chest. He wore an old fashioned, three-piece, double-breasted suit with the vest fully buttoned. He carried a cane which he set down deliberately on the sidewalk occasionally; evidently he didn’t need it for walking, only for balance. I had been wandering without purpose, and as I stopped to watch him I saw the three gang members waiting at the corner.

Without calculating my actions, I followed the old man. I think he was unaware I was there, just behind him and to his left. As we approached the gang members, I saw they were tense and ready. But something arrested them—maybe it was my following along with the old man—and they relaxed back against the chest high wall and the corner light pole, watching as we shuffled past.

The old man turned right at the corner and continued his shuffle, left right, left right. We had gone two blocks when he turned up a sidewalk leading into a big white house. A woman met him at the door, holding it open as he climbed slowly and agonizingly up the three steps.

Well, Mr. Johanssen, did you have a good walk? she asked cheerily.

He didn’t respond, glancing momentarily in her direction before lifting his right foot to clear the threshold.

She turned to me. And you are—?

I turned to leave. Wait. Who are you?

I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want to get involved in somebody else’s life either. When I stopped, she came around to stand in front of me. Who are you?

Jacob.

Jacob?

Yeah. Jacob Ishmael Nolander.

"Jacob Ishmael. Oh, like in Moby Dick."

Who?

"Moby Dick, the book.

I guess I never read it.

Oh. Well, it’s by Herman Melville.

I don’t think he lives around here.

Oh, no, I didn’t mean—. Look, I just want to ask you—why were you walking with Mr. Johanssen?

It wouldn’t be easy to escape her. I wasn’t really walking with him; I was just walking.

But I saw you through the window. He was walking, and you were a little behind him, as if you were escorting him.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. I was.

Well, why? I’d like to know.

He shouldn’t be out walking by himself. It’s dangerous for people his age to be out walking alone. Something might happen.

Oh, she said. Her face changed slightly. And you thought you could—? I see.

What she saw I didn’t know, but I just wanted to leave. I moved to walk around her.

Wait, please. Jacob. Is it okay if I call you that?

Yeah, I guess so. It’s my name.

You were protecting him?

In a way.

Oh. She stopped talking, but I could tell her brain hadn’t stopped as her face was busy. Well, I’ve told him and told him he shouldn’t go out walking by himself, but he simply refuses to listen. What can I do? I’m only a hired nurse, and sometimes they just will not listen to me.

I saw then that she was dressed all in white with a small white cap on her head, apparently a nurse’s uniform. What do you do as a hired nurse?

Oh, I get them up in the morning, help them get dressed, take them to the bathroom, feed them, try to entertain them. But I’ll have you know that’s not easy. It’s not easy at all. Sometimes I just want to—. Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Marcy. Marcy Wilkins. She held out her hand, so I took it. She gripped my hand like a man, but it wasn’t overly aggressive. It was a good handshake.

Look, Jacob, it’s almost time for their mid-afternoon treat. Why don’t you come in for a minute? You could have some, too, and there are always cookies. Wouldn’t you like to come in?

Well, I really ought to be going on—.

No, you come in. Come on, now, she said as she gently turned me and seemed to force me without actually pushing toward the door.

We went up the steps into a screened-in porch. Inside there were various lawn chairs and a sofa, all with cushions. Through the porch we went and entered a large room with tables and chairs. There were various people here and there, all of them looking as if they had been frozen in time. Some looked up as we entered and there was a glint of light in their faces, but they were the exception. Most of them looked as if they were waiting for death.

Come, Marcy said; I followed her. There were several tables with chairs, but there weren’t enough chairs for every space. This is where they take their meals, she said. Would you like to help me get them ready? Taking my lack of response as a yes, she said, You help bring in the ones in the wheelchairs. Put them any place there is space at a table.

The first wheelchair wouldn’t move, but when the person in it indicated the little levers which were evidently brakes and which locked the wheels in place, I saw that I had to release them. Then I could push the chair easily. Several of the people in the wheelchairs were overweight, sitting slumped over into themselves, waiting for life to come wake them up again but evidently not holding out much hope any longer. When I got them into position at the table, I locked the brakes so the chairs wouldn’t roll. While I had been moving the wheelchairs, the other residents had gathered also, with subdued murmurings among them, but nobody’s voice raised in anger, happiness, or any obvious emotion.

By that time Marcy and another woman had begun placing servings of jello onto the tables. The old people, knowing their duties, reached obediently for their spoons and began nibbling at the jello. Sit here, Marcy said to me, indicating a table close to a doorway through which she had carried the tray laden with jello.

I sat down. She sat one chair away from me, reaching for her spoon and pulling the jello toward herself.

Do you like jello, Jacob?

Sometimes.

Well, I do. I like it because it has so few calories, and I like to watch my weight. My husband doesn’t seem to notice, but I can gain weight quite easily, and I have to control what I eat. Jello keeps me from eating too much.

The room was very quiet, almost as if death had already invaded the room and carried away the souls of everyone there. What are we going to do about Mr. Johanssen? she asked.

What do you mean?

Well, he absolutely insists that he should be permitted to go for a walk every day, and you know it is good exercise, and it’s good for him to get outdoors, but I worry about him. Maybe you did, too—. This was phrased like a question, but I didn’t answer.

Well, anyway, as you said, it isn’t safe.

No.

You see, she leaned over toward me, lowering her voice, he needs an escort, somebody to walk with him.

I didn’t answer. The jello was good—bland, naturally—but it had a hint of cherry flavoring, and there was a chocolate sandwich cookie to go with it.

Would you like something to drink? How about a glass of milk?

Yes, thank you.

After she brought the milk, she sat down again. Could you come every day at two o’clock? That’s when he likes to take his walk.

I don’t think—

It wouldn’t require much of you. In fact, he might not even be aware of you. All you’d have to do is walk with him. Or behind him, you know so he’s not alone. So it looks like you’re together.

Well—

I’m afraid I couldn’t pay you. I have to work to help support our family—my husband’s a computer programmer, whatever that means, and he doesn’t earn enough to pay for everything, and you’re probably not certified to be hired by the company. But I could give you a meal occasionally, and the afternoon treats.

I was unsure of agreeing to this. It wouldn’t require much of me to accompany Mr. Johanssen on his daily walks, but it was tying myself down, and I didn’t want to do that. Until now, since leaving my mother’s apartment I had been free to come and go as I wanted. Even though I wouldn’t be paid, it was like a job, and I wasn’t certain that I was ready for that. Very soon Mr. Johanssen and Marcy both would be relying on me. What if I disappointed them somehow? Or something happened to me and I couldn’t show up one day? Yet I knew Mr. Johanssen needed someone to accompany him. The streets of New York were dangerous.

I don’t have a watch, I said. I wouldn’t know what time to come.

Oh. Well, if I got you a watch, then you would know when to come, wouldn’t you?

I guess so.

All right. I’ll get you a watch. Is a Timex all right? They’re not expensive, but nowadays they’re all digital, and they are very reliable.

Yes, I suppose.

All right. Tomorrow you come about noon and you can eat with us, and I’ll have a watch for you. She smiled brightly. I feel so much better about this. You see, I was worried about Mr. Johanssen, but now, he’ll be with you.

You don’t know anything about me.

Not really. But I do know your name, and I know that you protected him in a way, didn’t you? So I think I know enough.

I stood up.

You come back tomorrow about noon, she said with a smile.

Chapter Two

Living in my mother’s apartment, I learned that the fire escape was an avenue of retreat. It gave me a place to be alone, and there were times when I heard her coming that I would climb out the window and go up or down a level, out of her sight if she happened to look for me. Gradually I spent more and more time on the fire escape, and it became a natural part of my life. After I left the apartment for good, it was easy enough to use the fire escape to get back into the apartment.

I knew that while my mother was at work or away somewhere, I could climb the fire escape. This was relatively easy and safe as I had no fear of being seen since anyone who knew her knew also that I was her son. I always had to wait outside on the fire escape to discover whether the apartment was occupied or not. Since she scheduled appointments with her naturopathic clients at various times and in their homes, it wasn’t easy to know when she would be home. Usually, however, she was out during the late afternoon and sometimes for the whole evening.

I don’t remember that it was a conscious decision on my part to move out. I had simply gotten into the habit of spending less and less time there. One of the reasons for this was her men friends. I don’t know where she found them, but they were invariably the same, copies of men who might serve as an escort in an emergency, but who never had much to recommend them. They struck me as being similar to discarded cigarettes which street people retrieved from the gutter and when they were used up were returned to the gutter. That appeared to be what my mother did with her men friends. There was always another one to take the place of the previous one.

None of this had an effect on me until she brought home one man, Bill, who apparently believed that his relationship with her included the right to dominate me. As I had grown accustomed to ignoring her advice, so, too, I ignored his. This infuriated him with the result that he began to abuse me physically. At first it was subtle and even half-playful, but very quickly it escalated into what I perceived as real physical danger. Thus, I knew to avoid Bill, and, when I knew he was coming or even if I heard him in the hall, I quickly evacuated the apartment. At first this resulted only in my spending more time on the fire escape, eavesdropping on their conversations and witnessing their pathetic attempts at love making. As he continued to come around—even spending nights there—I saw that I had to find another place to live. My mother didn’t appear to be concerned about my comings and goings, so I felt no responsibility toward her. Thus, I spent many nights curled up in a blanket, sleeping on the grated floor of the escape. As late fall came, however, I saw that I had to find something more permanent. The result was that I moved into Central Park.

When I went back to the apartment, I usually restricted myself to taking a shower and to cleaning up. She didn’t keep much food in the apartment and it wasn’t anything that attracted me: organic vegetables and fruits, even organic chicken and eggs. She might notice their absence, but I wasn’t tempted to take anything because what she ate didn’t appeal to me. The apartment gave me a type of home base, even though I didn’t consider that I lived there any longer. I imagine she knew that I came and went at will, but there was never any sign—she never left me a note or anything.

The day I discovered the moving boxes in the living room, I saw that change was coming. It was obvious she was moving out. Whether I could continue to use the apartment or not, I would have to discover. I watched the apartment for several days and watched the progress being made at boxing up various possessions and furnishings. It occurred to me that I should contact her, but Bill was still hanging around and I didn’t want to risk facing him.

The day came when I saw through the window that the apartment was vacant. It stayed that way for about two weeks. Everything was gone, so if I wanted a shower, I had to carry a towel with me. I had taken a towel from the bathroom, so that and a bar of soap were all I needed. I saw that the building superintendent had tried to repair the locks on the windows, but he hadn’t wanted to spend money and had done it himself. It was easy to twist the lock open, raise the window, and climb in.

One day, late in the afternoon when it was just becoming evening I climbed up the fire escape and saw that people were moving into the apartment. A man and a woman, evidently his wife, were carrying boxes in from the elevator. I saw that they had a daughter also, about six or seven. This meant that I now had to find some other place to shower. As a result I began to spend days watching and analyzing the inhabitants of the various apartments. Some of the people worked all day. Once I determined who was not home, I could jimmy the window and climb in to take a shower. I always had to be alert, of course, as there was no telling when someone might come in unexpectedly. I had some narrow escapes but hadn’t been caught.

I suppose I should have been concerned about my mother, but I wasn’t as she hadn’t shown a great deal of concern for