Jack: A Senior's Life

By Robert Thompson

Jack is a senior who loses his wife suddenly. He's elegant, a professional engineer, who now wonders what the rest of his life is going to be, alone, or in community with others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Thompson
• Release date: Feb 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386826439

Robert Thompson

Robert Thompson grew up in Sudbury, Ontario. He was a graduate of Laurentian University. Well-travelled, he became a registered massage therapist in 1989. He has been married to his sweetheart for twenty-five years. He lives in Orillia, Ontario. Jack was written in praise of seniors, their talents and wisdom on offer on offer for the next generation.

Book preview

Eddington Estates is a fiction. Any resemblance to a real place is coincidental. There are no chapter headings or last names. I wish to acknowledge my wife Andrea who makes all things possible and to my good friend Sylvia who typed and co-edited the script.

Many thanks.

JACK: A SENIOR’S LIFE

Jack was seventy-five. His wife, Shirley, seventy-two, had died two days ago. He was frozen to his kitchen chair, the clock paralyzed, his feet cold, a crossword unfinished, a golden anniversary missed turned bitter. His son and daughter would arrive tomorrow. He’d deferred sympathy calls. My wife’s dead for Christ’s sake. I’m round the bend. Leave it. He’d have to make his own coffee.

His dog warmed him. Oh for Don’s scrapyard, his formal wrecks, voiceless transmissions and coloured wires to wrap against the uproar. Needing air, he took his dog for a shoreline walk, my compadre Rusty, he’ll keep me safe. The autumn colours hammered his mood. Leaving the dog at the condo, he walked to the Formica, a favourite café.  It was respite, the counter of one hundred thousand elbows, the bony ends, an equal mix of men and women, humming with politics, sports and how’s the corned beef. Coffee finished, he returned to his apartment in splintered light.

The funeral was over, weeping memorials and sandwiches, the cremation filed away. He was alone, the worst to come, Shirley in the howling mist, death’s shrapnel embedded in his skin.

Sixth day. He got chili from the freezer. On TV there was The Siege of Massada two thousand years ago sinking him into a restless trough of uncertainty and change. On the eighth day, angry at Shirley for leaving, his music now, finances to figure, travel plans, bills paid, she’d done them all. They were his now. He couldn’t read, the words alphabet soup. At the café, Max the owner, asked him how he was getting on.

My dog and I listen to the clock.

Poseidon appeared in his coffee. He asked Max for a doughnut to impale the trident. Was Zeus to Olympus next? A customer sat down.

You’re forlorn, I’m Sheila, your company for ten minutes. Here’s my bag of thrillers and mysteries. There’s no library in heaven. I’m getting it done now. I’m alone, the folks in these books are my friends. I live in a bachelor. When I go to sleep the characters keep bad feelings away.

Good strategy.

Jack said so long to Sheila and her book bag. At the apartment it was dusk. He felt Shirley in their bed, her body curled to his, their night coil.

No, no, sitting upright, please Shirley, you must see you must leave.

––––––––

The bleakest day, one of ochre and dust settling on him like an Algerian winter where plants in Oran’s suburbs die.

Twelve days on, morning. In the bedroom Jack opened up the closet to Shirley’s dresses, her elegant sweaters and jewelry. He’d keep one photo with pearls draped on it. The rest would go.

He took Rusty for a drive. Life was trickling in, cajoling. He bought a poppy for his lapel, remembering Shirley’s dictum of women running things ending all wars. Stopping the car he walked into a cornfield, the stalks battered by the cold. He sat between two rows and began to sob and wail like an animal, the cruelty, an outpouring away from public view. It went on for minutes, years, a fateful banshee. He cried ‘til his ribs hurt, his mouth dry. He laid down on the damp earth, Rusty next to him. Closing his eyes, Shirley’s presence hummed through him like a high voltage line.

It got colder. On his feet with a wet backside he drove home, watered and fed the dog and went to a local restaurant. He ordered salmon fettucine and a carafe of white wine. He got drunk. He walked home and fell into the deepest sleep in a month. The next morning he laid out the days. Shirley had sailed without him. The crossword was his alone including the corners. An old persona would be shed, changing its colours and temper.

The condolence calls had stopped. His wife was in far away Ionian ports, you devil, your emerald eyes and cables stretched across the kitchen wings, your holy principles.

Late autumn turned to winter. Lake Ontario was grey and fatigued by the lowering sky, the sailing club in hibernation. Jack’s morning routine was the Formica with its sectionals. Around the coffee silex they shared intimacies and gesticulations. Sheila appeared. Jack asked about her reading.

Time for a new stack.

How’s about you show me your place. Make tea and we’ll talk.

Let’s go, she said.

Her unit was in a six storey complex a short walk away with faded edges and a lobby that smelled. To his surprise her apartment was neat and tastefully furnished. Penelope, the budgie, chirped a welcome.

How is it, living on your own?

For me, fifteen years now. I got my bird, my books and the café. Keeps me regular. When baddies come I tell them to piss off.

She was contemptuous of two ex-husbands and three children, the falling out. She’d expunged all their pictures.

My family’s the café, the grocery clerks and library. They give me acceptance I didn’t have early on.

The profile over, he enjoyed her company. The oriental rug as a wall hanging caught his eye. He asked about it.

That’s my Rubiyat to the East, my trip far away. A girl needs a voyage.

He thanked Sheila for her kindness, the conquering of her solitude. He’d have to do the same.

At the apartment he made his supper. He played Chopin, his father’s memory between the boarded lines of the bush camp he helped build. When work was done, he’d take the boat out to wash the day’s sweat.  At night the marsh frogs would chorus, first the peepers, the mid-size ones, followed by the deep bullfrogs, a rhythmic rise and fall. The mosquitoes would drive him inside. He and Shirley had visited the parents, their kids along. Then his father was killed by an intruder, his mother in town. She sold the cottage, determined to keep the house. At seventy-five cancer struck. Jack stayed with her the last weeks. Where was his brother George? He should be here the bugger, nobody knew where he was.

The CD player shut off. He went to bed. The following days Sheila stopped coming to the café. He asked Max, the owner, what had happened.

Haven’t a clue, buddy. Maybe she passed on or moved.

A mid-afternoon. A frost rime covered the outside. He looked into his coffee cup. Nowhere was Poseidon. It was a one-timer. Ed sat down, a grocery truck driver Jack had befriended. Even in the cold he wore a ventilated baseball cap. 

Not chilly in that cap?

It gives me style, Ed’s deeply lined face wrinkling into a smile.

When are you signing your next movie deal? Jack asked.

How’s about Smokey and the Bandit III? My agent’s got me driving a criminal truck.

I’ll buy the first tickets, Ed.

Gotta go, there’s more deliveries. If I get the part, you’ll be the sidekick.

At four-thirty the workers came in. Jack left to walk his dog. The lake was a pewter shade. A paddler with furious strokes glided by. Jack wondered about his own fitness. He and his brother had been active kids, the woods their fiefdom. Winter meant skating, blades cutting their mark, then warming around a wood stove.

He’d had a check-up six months ago; doc said he was fine, cardiac sufficiency and all. He might join a gym.

At supper he watched Rhythm and Blooms, its magnificent colours. Sleep. Next day he called the Sally Ann. Would they like a queen bed? Could they pick it up? Two p.m. was good. He stripped the linen and stacked the alternates. The bed was gone by two-thirty p.m. He slept on his pull away bed that night. Next day he bought a single bed. It was delivered the following day. He bundled and boxed  Shirley’s clothes and accessories for the Catholic charities. Paintings were kept. Their colours had sluiced through countless Scrabble and crossword games. I give up, she’d say, let’s call a truce, your Euclidean blue is a winner, my hotlines won’t go honey, he’d say, let’s go over your waterfall, its billion drops, love’s underpinnings.

Married couples drifted away. He was a single item, not wanted by the tribe. He was relieved, pretensions finished. The Formica and elsewhere would determine new relationships.

Christmas deco had been put up in the café. Jack was still raw, nothing planned, keep it simple. Tender ghosts of seasons past. Ed dropped by for a coffee.

Well, Smokey, you in or out?

Everything is casted. I’ll keep my day job. What about you, Jack?

I’m still figuring it out, the day’s set up, my dog, maybe a spring trip.

Jack teared up,  I miss Shirley terribly.

Ed put a consoling arm around Jack’s shoulder.

"The café does cheer me up, a lively bunch they are.

You’re here often?

Two or three times a week. Breakfast alone is spooky. And you got a toque on.

Minus ten drove me to it.

Ed moved off to his truck. More deliveries. The café ebbed and flowed, coffee trickling into the gossip, a chorus of unpaid mortgages, job losses and personals. Jack stayed on for lunch.

It was mid December. He mounted icicles, baubles and Christmas cards on a small tree. Oh Shirley, my Fujiyama Moon, I’m drying up in the Atacama, the scorpion eats my loneliness, I’m skeletal. Jack lay on the recliner, had two sherries, then a whiskey. His son Ron called him from West Van.

Merry Season, Dad. Hope you get through it all right.

Got a tree up, for starters. I’ll make do.

I’ve been offered a hotel project in Malaysia, big money. Should I take it?

Trust your instincts, Ron. You’re a good engineer. Overseas is logistics and cultural spreads. Ask for computer modules. We’ll have a future talk.

Joan and the girls send their best.

The day was closing out. Sunlight angled through the glass door. He played some classical favourites of Shirley’s.

After supper and TV he lay in his new bed. Sleep was easier, conciliatory.

For a week he was secluded. Christmas day arrived. There were no gifts. Without Shirley it was of no import. He walked Rusty, had lunch and a double whiskey at four o’clock. Supper was a Cornish hen, potatoes, cranberry sauce with peas, no gravy. Dessert was followed by a brandy. The day closed.

Boxing Day Jack lay in his recliner in lovely sleep. Snow fell over southern Ontario. The shore landscape turned black and white like an old movie. Jack got his camera gear out. The winter landscape was a photo op, with its rocks, snow and dark patches. Outside he shot several frames of the seasonal patterns along with a sign and a passing couple. He shot three rolls, sending some prints for enlargement.

He and Rusty went for a drive in the country. After the seclusion the fields were endless. With his camera he shot weathered surfaces, the paint peels and furrows. They headed back to town. It was New Year’s Eve. At the LCBO he got champagne and a bottle of Scotch, a midnight salute to Times Square ball drop. He got drunk blanching at the TV  show’s forced laughter. Midnight. Auld Lang Syne. In bed the room was spinning.

"I’m pissed, Rusty, can you slow the room down? I’ll invent us a new star. The dog peered at him, he fell asleep waking at nine a.m. Three cups of coffee and Advil cleared the headache.

Two days later he went to a grief counselor. They discussed the acute period, the turbulent first year. The second year one of acceptance,

Most professionals agree on twenty-four months. Then you get on with things.

The dead have their own problems?

The living have theirs.

Thanks for the counsel.

Shirley appeared one night with face blackened by fire codes, her feet stumps, stumbling through charred photos ringed by heat, I couldn’t get you out, God, I’m dying in the blister, a defiant, ruined household, Jack sweating awake, Rusty the day’s face. I’ll teach him to crossword, Jack thought, eh boy, coffee black or white, the head cock.

One February morning he woke without dread. Life was merciful, he’d go on in winter’s complexion. An exercise routine was established, Shirley’s picture an affirmation. It had been his favourite, her deep-set green eyes, hair cut short.

At spring’s start he decided on a senior’s tour of the U.S. southwest. He wanted company, people his age in a month long bus trip. He kenneled Rusty, advised condo management of his plans. He packed toiletries and hiking gear along with a camera pack. It was the first trip without his wife.

They had been on the bus for three days. It’d be two more to Carlsbad, New Mexico, the first notable stop. From there a swing through southern Arizona, Nevada and the Hoover Dam. The group was a mix of men and women with a few couples. Jack had befriended Chester, a retired accountant. He was on his own. He’d come home from a shopping trip, a note from the wife telling him she was through. She hadn’t felt good about him or the marriage. She’d checked out, didn’t want anything, Chester rattling the details.

Thirty-eight years together. Bingo. No idea this was coming. Maybe I took her for granted.

In his underwear tank top and dropped suspenders, sitting on the edge of the bed, he was uncomprehending.

Chester, there’s no ready answer. It’s the suddenness that’s looped you. Let’s get some sleep. And no more booze. You’ll have a hangover.

You’re right. I’ll do my teeth.

He was asleep in minutes. Thank God he’s not a snorer, Jack smiled to himself.

At breakfast Chester was rueful. Jack kept to the present. They’d talk about the trip. Nothing else. Carlsbad was done; Tucson was next and Organ Pipe National Monument. Chester weaned himself off his vanished wife, the trip now his focus. In Tucson Jack took the side trip to Organ Pipe and the saguaro cactus. Chester declined. Jack wanted solitude. That night there was a desert starry, glorious constellations.

On the shuttle next day Jack met up with Lois. She’d been widowed three years, this was her third tour and the most dramatic. The cacti had an ethereal beauty. There were white blossoms coming out. Back at the hotel Jack thanked her for the company. He sat on his bed, going over the day. Chester burst into the room, showing Jack his purchases and the museums he’d seen.

I’m getting frisky with one of the women.

Good for you, Chester.

What about the desert?

Dry. Let’s go eat.

Day fourteen. They were in Sedona with its red rock canyons and circling pine forests. Next stop was the Grand Canyon. As they wandered Sedona Chester announced that a dalliance had ended.

At the Canyon, its immensity and scope couldn’t be caught on camera. On the road, they looked forward to Hoover Dam, an engineering marvel, its massive turbines and vertical line. Las Vegas was an hour away. It was a two day layover,  With no gambling intent, Jack rented a car to roam the desert. Next morning he headed west to Death Valley on the California line. Arriving late a.m. the valley floor was heating up.  In Shoshone, a nearby town, he was told of Tecopa Springs with its thermal baths. He pulled in, disrobed and sat naked with the other bathers who camped out for months in the healing waters. Jack left Tecopa and drove back to Vegas the desert’s cathedral silence enveloping his car, its tracks closing the rent death had made. Chester met him at the hotel.

I was up, down, even at the blackjack table.

You gotta leave up, Jack said. Don’t buck the house. Let’s crash early. Tomorrow is our longest driving day.

What’s our next stop?

Elko, the home of cowboy poetry. It’s three hundred miles.

Next day. The bus pulled into their hotel at six p.m. It was a goodly size, a place with a mining and ranching heritage.

This is a three day stop. Enjoy your stay.

Jack and Chester found their hotel room with its western style wallpaper and old plumbing. It was charming. They had a whiskey before supper. Jack saw Lois again at the meal.

You liking the trip OK? he asked.

Yes. The desert blooms are spectacular.

Jack told her of his Death Valley trip, her direct gaze making him flush. After supper with Chester reading in bed, Jack and Lois walked down the town’s main street. She talked of her late husband, the lingering illness and death. She’d sold the house, moving into a senior’s residence.

It’s very nice. It would be nicer still to have a partner again.

Jack nodded, taking her hand and walking back to the hotel. He said good night.

The next day was clear and crisp.

Lois and I are having the day together, lunching in a park at the town’s edge.

You’re canoodling?

Chatting, that’s all.

Tell me about it later. And I’ll try your advice on the crap tables.

Jack and Lois had the hotel pack a lunch and thermos. They walked to a park a half kilometer away. Finding shade, they were silent for a while, the arid landscape so different from home. Back stories followed, likes and dislikes, Lois’s three children raised and gone with lives of their own.

Spousal death is terrible. Shirley died quickly. I was batty for a while.

You get over the loss, Jack. One is still alive, you and me here, what we want in the remainder.

So you like my looks? he asked.

You’re not Cary Grant, yet you aren’t Buddy Hackett either. Somewhere in between.

They had lunch with thermos coffee. He said he liked her as well, she was sensible and funny.

Let’s play it by ear, Jack said.

They walked to the nearest intersection and got a cab. At the hotel they had a giddy embrace. Back in the room the two men related their day.

I walked away with eight hundred net, Chester said.

Good man. Lois and I had a picnic.

Chester raised his eyebrows.

On the Plains of Abraham?

The next morning they headed east, homeward bound. Jack and Lois sat together, talked every day. They both enjoyed classical music and Indie movies. Jack mentioned his dog. Idaho and Wyoming went by unnoticed. Somewhere in Illinois they exchanged phone numbers and emails. Sex was discussed. Her sap had run dry; she didn’t want a restart period. Jack replied that his trunk was vertical no longer. They howled at that one.

The bus pulled into The Smoke. He took her hand.

I’ll call in a few days.

I’m good with that, she replied.

He and Chester said goodbye.

The mantra is ...

Take the money and run, Chester shouted.

On the shuttle Jack reflected on Lois. Within a week a decision. At his condo the empty space struck him forcefully. He unpacked his gear along with the unopened camera bag. He picked up Rusty. The kennel said he’d been problem-free. Getting groceries and booze, he returned to his unit, mixed a drink and sat on the balcony.

This place does have a view, Rusty, the dog cocking his head.

Jack had come home to spring.

The next two days was a reentry of routine, breakfast, morning paper and a Formica visit. The regulars welcomed him back, Jack describing the high points, Hoover Dam the star. He didn’t mention Lois. On the third day he buried Shirley’s ashes in a flower bed at the building’s front.

Well Shirl, glads were your favourite, so here you are.

Upstairs he called Lois.

I’m not ready for a live in deal.

With disappointment in her voice she understood.

––––––––

Two weeks on, Jack called West Vancouver. He’d like to visit for ten days, sorting things out. Could he bring his dog, they’d keep him for a while. He was planning an Asian trip of six weeks.

I’ll elaborate on arrival.

Good plan, his son Ron replied. The dog can run around out back.

The next day he rang his daughter Sally who lived in Regina.

I’ll fix up the guest room, Father.

Thanks, honey.

Flying to B.C. he had several drinks with peanuts. He landed with a headache and indigestion. Ron met him at the airport.

Hey geezer, welcome to Lotus Land.

They embraced. On the drive to the house, catch up. Arriving, Joan cuddled him warmly.

We’re very glad you’re here. Rusty can board with us for a while. Lots of room.

Appreciate it. He’s been such a pal, a real comfort these past months.

He looked around the house with its deep back yard and sub-tropical vegetation. The dog ran in happy circles. Father and son sat on the deck.

Well, Dad?

I’m better. The first months were a sledgehammer, everything around me obliterated.

They paused.

How’s work, Ronny?

I didn’t take the Asian job. We’re settled here. Love West Vancouver, out of the city’s traffic jams, our daughters are on their way.

Jack talked of his Southwest trip, the sandstones, everything you’ve heard.

I had a flirtation with a nice lady.

They sat through the afternoon, a dramaturgy of ideas, cause and effect, the insects their subalterns. Joan left refreshments, then disappeared. The languid talk went on. The Georgia Strait currents slowing to listen. Jennifer appeared, the youngest. She was happy to see Grandad. Her iPhone beeped.

Excuse me, please.

"Is this gizmo overload? Jack asked.

All her friends have one.

Jennifer returned for dinner sitting with her parents and Jack. In the evening they talked politics, relatives and Joan’s interests.

I just want to hang a bit, son. Joan and I can visit downtown, do the book shops.

Use the second vehicle.

Jack took his luggage to the guest room. It had been Molly’s, who was working in the B.C. interior.

At breakfast Ron advised them on traffic.

"Wait for the commuters to clear. Less hassle.

He left for work. Jack and Joan lazed over their coffee. He asked about her extras.

I volunteer at the Food Bank. There’s a book club and the house needs maintenance. Ron wants us to join a golf club. It’s ludicrous. I’ve never played. I think it’s for the prestige and business contacts. Memberships are expensive. It’s a tail chaser.

She sat at the kitchen table, face in her hands.

I’m sad, right now.

Jack suggested they go into Old Vancouver, browse the stores, get an ice cream, give you a time out. On the drive Joan talked of the exploding population, the Asian influx, the jams. West Van was a world unto itself.

What of your near future, Pop?

Keeping balance, finding reasons to get up in the morning. Simplifying things.

The condo? she asked.

It’ll be sold, at some point. Community living is in the works.

They parked, going into a bookstore. It had old and new editions. At an expresso café they had specialties. Jack asked about her two oldest. Molly finished first year of animal husbandry at University of Alberta. Susan wants to be a teacher.

I’m thinking of a Himalayan trip, about six weeks. Shirley and I had been in Nepal years ago.

A nostalgia tour, Jack?

Don’t think so. I want some deepening, a better handle on events.

Like death?

Its corollaries, Jack replied.

Leaving the book store Jack re-upped the parking meter. They walked through the sun, its Pacific balm. Joan had grown up on the prairies, its harsh climate. B.C. suited her just fine.

Life’s been good to me, Jack, with a solid guy, three daughters raised. We nurtured them, loved them. They seem balanced. We’ll keep the house for now.

At an ice cream stand she remembered meeting Ron at the University of Alberta. He was in the second year of engineering.

He was good looking, smart, knew what he wanted. Not a bad dancer either. He had giddyup. I thought, that’s my man, finishing her ice cream.

I was in a B.A. programme, had no clue about what I wanted. School was marking time. Homemaker was in. No regrets.

Right now?

My tank’s a bit empty. Maybe a hobby. How’s about jewelry making or ancestry.com. I know, scrapbooking.

Start talking to your hibiscus.

You yanking me!

They chuckled and kept walking. Back to the car and home.

Next day, with Ron at work, Jack suggested they browse the garden, cozy up to the flower beds.

You’re on my case, Pop. At least you’re paying attention. Ron has slipped in that area and I’m not learning to play golf.

An exercise, Joan. When you’re alone for part of that day, put yourself in the third person singular: here she is washing dishes, here’s Joan preparing breakfast. It creates space between the suffering and Joan and the observing sister. It’s bearing witness, lifts the load, don’t laugh. It worked for me.

Ron arrived home. Drinks were mixed, a deck bastion established.

Dad, I’ve got a project glitch. Can we go over the math?

The three sat in the late afternoon. Jack would fly to Regina tomorrow. He thanked them for their generosity. A last stroll with Rusty.

Come on, fellow. Give me head cock.

After supper, Ron asked what he and Joan had been up to over the week.

Well, son, we used calipers to measure the stamen length of all garden flowers.

Joan suppressing a giggle. Ron snorted in disbelief, Jack smiling at Joan.

The pansies were most difficult while the gladiolas had easy compliance, your mother’s favourite.

Joan was in hysterics.

Ron, it was all about length, setting Joan off on a fresh round, tears rolling.

Next morning at the airport. Jack and Joan had a warm hug.

Thanks for the laughter, Pop. My garden wants a closer look.

Jack winked at her. Two and a half hours later he was in Regina. He hadn’t seen Sally since the funeral. She was forty-four and had her mother’s green eyes.

So good you could visit, Father. Let’s get the bags from the car.

On the ride to the house the city’s flatness struck him. He related the hibiscus story. Sally was puzzled.

An inside joke. Joan had many chuckles.

Sally’s bungalow was neat, meticulous with groomed yards. They ate a prepared meal.

"You fully settled here?’

It’s good, Dad. I’ve got tenure at school, the work is always interesting. Every year there’s student turnover.

Are the freshmen literate?

Not all. Some we reject.

Her cats made an entrance, caressing his legs.

They’ll get the hang of you.

What of the single life?

I’ve had some flings, nothing permanent. And I’m past child-bearing.

They were silent.

My work’s more important. The younger students my children. I have my cats and friends. The prairie sunsets are awesome. I’ve adjusted to the cold winters.

They finished the meal, sitting in front of the TV.

"I’ve splurged on a HD last year. It’s got some great cable packages.

She reminisced, You and Mom set the marriage bar high, its mesh and compromise. I keep looking for the perfect guy.

They watched TV for a while. An hour later Jack was in bed. The calico cat slept at the bed’s foot.

The next day