Thursdays With Harold

By Selina Stambi

Harold Stedman, a quirky sixty-something suburban lawyer with a crooked smile and zany sense of humour, is retained by Fiona to represent her in a bizarre case of copyright theft and wrongful dismissal.

Shortly into the legal proceedings Harold is diagnosed with ALS. Within months he's lost his power of speech, but he's determined to see the case through.

Fiona makes weekly visits to Harold's office as attorney and client make a united effort to laugh their way through the harrowing circumstances

Lorraine, Harold's wife – a strong, stylish professional – and Fiona become friends as time ticks by and the case drags on. Then Lorraine Stedman turns nasty. Very nasty.

There's a trial looming and finances are depleted. An ugly cloud hangs over Fiona. Will there be a way out?

Charged with pathos and fun, unexpected twists and convolutions, this is the compelling story of an unlikely friendship, misplaced trust and the mad scramble to wind up an ill-fated lawsuit.

Come on in and visit with Fiona on Thursdays with Harold …

"This is a book that should be read. A perfect book club book that would lead to wonderful discussions. A book that stays with you." Judy Starritt

• Language: English
• Publisher: Selina Stambi
• Release date: Feb 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393921554

Selina Stambi

Selina Stambi is an amateur actor, author, poet, playwright and creative artist.  She is a keen observer of life around her and is fascinated by larger-than-life characters in real-life situations. Selina is passionate about many things.  She lives in the suburbs of Toronto, where she spends her summers creating colour and art in her garden and the rest of the year trying to write in the midst of daily distractions. Email at [e-mail] .

Book preview

Chapter One 

The Scent Of Jasmine

Inever stopped believing in a miracle for my friend, Michelle.  It didn’t happen and she was taken away.  I now had to believe for a miracle for Harold Stedman.    

I began my visits on Thursday afternoons and, from week to week, I could see the encroaching deterioration on his person.   His voice grew fainter and his spoken words were becoming harder to understand.  He was mutating into a limp shadow of his former self. 

I picked up my pen to write —

My friend seems frailer each time I see him.  His frame is heavily stooped, his limbs stick out at awkward angles and there is a transparent quality about his dry, sallow skin.  His cheeks are gaunt and his features drawn.  The dear enormous nose that suited his face so well has suddenly become ridiculously larger than life.

I am becoming an able lip-reader, though it’s disconcerting to have to concentrate on a speaker’s lips all the time.

My heart breaks to see him this way ...  

I set the pen down on the glass-topped table and leaned against the padded patio chair.  The wind chimes in the apple tree began to tinkle and I paused to remember the little things.    

I asked Harold one day, if he was afraid to die.  He shook his head and our conversation turned to God.  At first he was facetious, but his eyes regarded me soberly as our discussion progressed.  They brimmed over with tears and his face became crumpled with emotion.                          

We had wonderful conversations, Harold and I.   His words were invigorating, laced with wisdom, kindness and his own particular zany brand of humour.

He made me giggle like a giddy schoolgirl.   

As we sat together one afternoon, I remembered the gift I'd brought.  I delved into the depths of my handbag and extricated a wad of Kleenex.  With eagerness and curiosity he accepted it, parting the folds of tissue to find a creamy, slightly wilted double-petal jasmine blossom lying exposed in the palm of his hand.

The heavy fragrance rose into the air.

From my garden, I said quietly.                          

Harold raised the flower to his nostrils and inhaled deeply.  I read the words swimming in his eyes, the gratitude for the sense of smell that remained unimpaired. He opened the top drawer of his desk and slipped the bloom inside.     

Have you been to the Dalai Lama this week? I inquired.                  

He nodded, amused and the imp of mischief waltzed into his eyes.  Our laughter was cut short when he began to choke on saliva.     

Harold stopped using his mobile phone when someone hinted that the radiation from the device could have triggered his condition.  He sought the ministrations of every quack brought to his attention.  The latest in the parade was a Tibetan monk with a supposedly guaranteed-to-cure acupuncture treatment.  Dalai Lama was the nickname I bestowed on the gentleman.    

A lawyer without a mobile phone is an oddity.  A practising lawyer without a speaking voice is a greater curiosity.

Harold spread his slender hands out for inspection.  I squinted and fixed my gaze on the weakest finger.  It didn’t appear any better, so I said nothing.  

He looked disappointed.

I promised my daughter we would go scuba diving together next year, he rasped.          

And you will, I responded with exaggerated heartiness.  I know you will.

Neither of us believed a word I uttered.        

I opened my journal and began to read out loud –

I walked to my Enchanted Woods yesterday, along a trail I discovered recently. I love to linger in the dim, dreamy, leafy world of quiet wonder.  I feel a need to go to this spot each evening.  It's become a sort of pilgrimage now.  I find myself leaning against a peeling tree trunk to whisper my thoughts to God and I linger talking, sometimes crying, until the buzz of mosquitoes and their insistent sting on my bare legs, arms and neck constrain me to head back home.  I find that this is where I want to go to talk to God about my friend, Harold, to weep, to plead, to question.

Sometimes the pressure inside gets so heavy, I have to escape.  I walk as fast as I can until I reach the little ornamental bridge.  Only then does my heart still and I'm sure I can hear God.  I whisper my heart out to him and my universe teeters into balance once more.  For the moment ...    

I snapped the covers of the book shut.  Harold’s eyes, fixed steadily on me as I read, were soft.   

Can you see it? I asked.

No. His mouth moved then he wrote laboriously –

But I can feel it.     

Chapter Two  

Nuts   

Ithumbed through an elderly copy of Time Magazine, oblivious to the murmur of voices emerging from Harold's room.  The hum of weekday office noises drowned the sound of her descent down the narrow flight of stairs, so I wasn’t aware of Mrs. Stedman’s presence until she subsided into the chair next to mine. 

Her unexpected appearance startled me.          

Are you waiting for Harold? Lorraine Stedman queried.                           

I nodded.  Yes, I have an appointment.  Do you?                 

She chuckled.  "No.  Did he tell you what happened last weekend? 

Theatre tickets and plans to go away with your sister and her husband ...         

No.  I haven’t met him since the weekend.  I answered.  Did you enjoy the play?       

She looked grim.  He had a fall. We took him to emerg.  He had to have stitches.      

My heart constricted. What happened?                              

We were just walking around.  He said he tripped, but I know he lost his balance.                                   

Mrs. Sted ... Lorraine, I began, my heart really goes out to you.            

Thank you.  Her eyes grew moist, the muscles in her jaw tightened.   

I recently lost a friend to ALS.  I spent a lot of time with her.                              

I know.  Her voice was low.  Harold told me.                              

I placed my hand on hers.  What can I do to make it easier for you?

You are doing a lot already.  She smiled.  You spend time with Harold, you come over on Thursdays and you read to him.  It's exactly what he needs.  He looks forward to your visits.                       

There are going to be times when you’ll need to get away.  I’m willing to come and sit with him when you feel you must have a break, I said.          

Thank you.  She didn’t flinch when her eyes met mine.  I don't want to think about that time.   Not just yet.        

The client left.  

Terry stuck her head ’round the corner.  Mr. Stedman will see you now.      

Lorraine and I exchanged pleasantries before she climbed the stairs to her upper floor office.       

I stepped into Harold’s room.  My eye paused at the armchair by the door and I remembered an incident from some months back when I began to notice a large cellophane-wrapped gift basket of assorted nuts.  It sat abandoned and gathering dust on the chair adjacent to the door.  I have a penchant for nuts— cashews in particular— and wondered why this feast sat despised and overlooked.

I couldn't resist, I had to ask.

It was a gift from Terry and Chrissy last Christmas, Harold replied nonchalantly.   

A wry smile quivered on his lips

My jaw dropped.  It was six months since Christmas. 

So why is it still here?         

They are not the kind of nuts I like, so I just let them stay there.  This way, they'll get the message.  They won’t buy me the same thing next year.            

My eyes widened.  I had made queries about the basket some months before.  Terry would only say, Do you want them?  No one does.              

It must have cost a pretty penny.       

How could you be so rude? I demanded.  "You could have thanked the girls and taken it home.  And then given it away, or tossed it in the garbage.  It’s called being gracious, you know.                   

But if I pretended to like what they got for me, they might get the same thing again next year, he argued.

I responded with a perplexed shake of my head.  It was none of my business anyway.  

My thoughts rolled on ...

For over a year, Harold lived and breathed his glorious dream home as it took shape under his personal supervision.  I listened to detailed descriptions of the custom-made front door, the stained glass windows and the transparent stairway.  He told me about the tree he’d had planted in the new garden.  He described the antique urn his wife picked up at an auction and how they were hunting for a second one to make a matching pair.        

I sat quietly while he picked up endless calls on his mobile, yelling himself hoarse at some hapless contractor.  He had just enough voice to verbalize his displeasure.  His eyes flashed fire when he hung up and I chided him for getting irate.  He would calm down in an instant, looking sheepish.

He was acutely aware that time was not on his side.      

From time to time, Harold issued an invitation. Come with me to the building site.  I want to show you how the work is progressing.

I’d always decline.  I’d rather sit here and chat.

He responded one day in exasperation, You are so protective of Lorraine!          

I suppose I was.

He understood my qualms.    

Lorraine phoned one evening, to invite John and myself to the triumphant housewarming party.  She changed the original date to accommodate our calendar.

I had to give them a gift.  Something different and unique— not flowers or chocolates.  Where does one begin with people who have everything?

I spent several evenings creating a pressed flower picture, using blossoms from my summer garden.  The result was not unpleasing, I thought, and I put additional effort into elaborate gift wrapping. 

I whipped up some mango mousse as well.

Harold's eyes gleamed when he relieved me of the dessert in the glass bowl.  He spent the rest of the evening eating most of it himself, scooping it up from the bowl with a spoon.                                            

The gift, with its carefully colour-coordinated packaging and card, remained where I’d set it down by the front door.                           

The Stedmans guided their gaggle of guests through a grand tour of the new abode.  Lorraine’s sculptures were everywhere.  These pieces were gentle and nurturing, devoid of the savage passion raging through the artwork adorning the office.       

Harold opened the narrow cupboard on the wall by the kitchen sink, to display a mini pharmacy of drugs which was his daily fare.

The food was cordon bleu, hors d’oeuvres and bite-sized dainties prepared by the chatelaine herself.

Harold never stopped smiling and occasionally interrupted a conversation with some quirky banter.  He was mostly silent though, verbal communication being arduous and exhausting.

I held both his hands in mine when we said goodbye. I am so proud of you, I said. This is an incredibly beautiful home.  I’ve never seen anything like it.                     

Harold’s eyes glowed with tears.  He swallowed a lump in his throat and whispered hoarse, tremulous words, barely distinguishable. 

I love you both, he mouthed, his smile embracing both John and me.

Harold phoned the following week to tell me how pleased his wife had been to receive the thank you card I'd sent.       

He never mentioned the gift.      

Chapter Three

Popcorn   

December galloped in with winter weather on its back.  Christmas was around the corner.  I dropped in at the office with presents for Harold and his staff.  I’d purchased a coloured-glass tree angel for Terry, tins of assorted chocolates for Ron and Bridget.  For the Stedmans there was a sizeable container shaped like an old fashioned milk urn, filled with different flavours of popcorn.  I hoped the artist in Lorraine would find the packaging whimsical.                                              

Dinner preparations were in full swing