Dancing on Glass

By Ronald H. Steiginga

Dancing on Glass is the sequel to the author’s previous novel, Seneca Island. We find Richard Truscott trying to rebuild his life after losing a daughter in a plane crash over the Atlantic and also his wife, after a long and debilitating illness. He sells his house and moves to a senior community, hoping a new venue might offer new opportunities and friends to help him rebuild his life. What he faces instead is more challenges, some coming from his two sons and an outspoken woman neighbor who is determined to become part of his life. He finds himself dancing on glass, hoping it doesn’t crack while he looks to find his way. He needs a guide….

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781678190415

Book preview

Dancing on Glass

Other Books by Ronald H. Steiginga

The Flying Dutchman

Growing Up Under a Mushroom Cloud

The Mansions of Eastwick

Wandering in the Promised Land

The Other Side of Jordan

Stops Along the Way

Seneca Island

Dancing on Glass

Ronald H. Steiginga

Copyright © 2021 by Ronald H. Steiginga

All rights reserved.  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This is a novel, a work of fiction.  All of the characters, situations and conversations are the product of the author’s imagination and do not represent any person, living or dead.

First printing:  2021

ISBN 978-1-6781-9041-5

Dedication

For Elizabeth Abbas

Fair critic and stalwart friend

In Appreciation

As I have done many times before, I wish to thank my wife, Karen, and my son, Jeff, for their invaluable help in editing and formatting this novel.

This is a work of fiction.  All of the characters, situations and conversations depicted in these pages are the products of the author’s imagination and do not represent any person, living or dead.

Part One

Picking Up the Pieces

1

R

ichard Truscott opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling and immediately began to panic.  He didn’t recognize it.  The crack that ran from the fan to the far wall was missing.  Where did it go?  He quickly glanced around the room and saw that he did not recognize it, either.  He was in a room he did not know.  Where the hell was he, he asked himself.  Was this some sort of dream?  And if it was, he needed to wake up in a hurry.  He had always been one to dream, but most of his dreams were actually nightmares.  Nothing good ever came out of his dreams.  He needed to wake up immediately, before he found himself trapped in a room from which he could not escape.  The only way to leave the room was to wake up.  Experience had taught him that.  He touched the things around him, like the blanket and sheet.  They were real.  He was awake, after all.

He tossed the sheet and blanket aside and sat up in the bed, turning so as to get his feet down to the floor.  The rug felt good on the bottom of his feet.  That was another sign he was awake.  He never felt anything in his dreams.  Usually, he was simply an onlooker, watching a calamity close in on him.

He chuckled to himself as he came to his senses.  It was a good thing he was alone; otherwise he would have been embarrassed.  As it was, his face was already crimson with humiliation.  None of this was a dream at all.  He remembered now he was in his new home and he had just spent his first night there.

Slowly he recalled the events of the day before.  The agony of watching his furniture and packed boxes of all his things get loaded on to truck by a half dozen muscled men acting as if his things were simply debris to be tossed aside.  Yet they wrapped everything in blankets and moved everything with dispatch and disinterest.  It was all in a day’s work for them.  He was the only one who cried inwardly at this major upheaval in his life.  He had spent the past thirty years in this house, most of them with his deceased wife, Drea, who had died of a broken heart, one that had ruptured when they learned that their daughter, Megan, had been lost in a plane crash at sea.  Megan’s body was never recovered and so there was no final goodbye or closure.  All that remained was Drea’s wasting body, one that brought her slowly to death’s door and finally allowed her spirit to depart from a hurtful world.

For a while he tried to carry on, trying to rebuild a shattered life that had broken into tiny shards of glass.  He made a valiant effort to glue each tiny piece of his life back to its rightful place, but it was an impossible task. There wasn’t enough glue in the world to rehabilitate his life.  It was lost forever.  He had to make a new start, begin again.  Somehow.

Part of that new start was to move into a townhouse he purchased in Lenape Village, a fifty-five plus community tucked away off a busy thoroughfare in a nearby town.  One could not see it from the road and it offered a great amount of privacy, where he could lick his wounds.  And he had a lot of wounds that needed attention.

The first wound was the fact he was now broke.  He had never given much thought to his finances during the years of Drea’s decline at The Hilltop Nursing Home.  If a bill suddenly appeared in the mail, he simply paid it.  It was not until after Drea’s death that he came to realize that his cash reserves had been depleted to almost nothing.  His focus had always been on Drea and her care; nothing else mattered.  But now his money situation mattered a great deal.  When his son, Chip, asked him for a loan to expand his business in Albany he agreed without hesitation, but when he went to assemble the cash he realized he was broke.  The only asset he had was his house.  He had no idea what it was worth.  The Great Recession had devastated the real estate market.  For all he knew, it might be worth less than half of what he thought the market value should be.  For the first time since he had lost his job in the recession, he was frightened.  Perhaps scared shitless might be a better term for it.

He could hear the birds chirping outside his window.  The morning light was coming, but it was hard to say if it was strong enough to be considered dawn.  But the birds said it was coming, one way or another.  He peered across the room to where his dresser stood with an alarm clock on top of it.  Its large, digital face boldly announced that it was 5:15 in the morning.  It was time to get up.  The bathroom was a mere three steps away.  It was an all-white room, both the tile and the painted walls the same.  The basin and commode were also white.  Even now, with dawn still a ways off, the room was bright enough to see everything.  He liked the idea of a bright bathroom.  It was where you started the day, so it needed to be as bright as possible for eyes still half asleep.

Still, he flicked on the light out of habit.  He stared into the mirror above the sink and did not like what he saw.  His face was haggard and said he was an old man.  He really could not argue with that.  Drea’s death and the ensuing financial trouble that forced him to sell his house had taken a toll on him.  The lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper.  His hair, more gray than it had been in the past, seemed to be receding back on his forehead.  The worst of it was his eyes, which were a dull gray and said they were very tired.  Dark circles clung below the sockets, sorrowful black sacks that said his life was not right, no matter how much he tried to deny it.  The eyes never lied; they spoke the truth for the world to see.  For years had heard how young he looked for his age.  He wouldn’t be hearing those words anymore.

He ran the water and splashed some onto his face.  It made no difference.  He still looked the same.  You can’t fight city hall, he muttered, then turned on the shower.  He pulled the curtain closed to keep the water in the tub and also warm it up.  He stripped and entered the shower.  The hot water revived him.  When he finished washing he stepped out of the tub and toweled off.  He dug his razor out of a small bag with other toiletries and shaved.  All his ablutions did not make him feel younger, but at least he felt human again.

He dressed in a navy golf shirt and tan pants. He donned his favorite cordovan loafers and forgot about wearing socks.  It was getting close to summer.  In his opinion, socks were not allowed during the summer months.

He went to the staircase that led downstairs and held on to the iron bannister tightly as his wobbly legs negotiated the stairs.  His legs were another part of him that were not the way they used to be.  Once on the ground floor, he headed to the rear of the house and the kitchen.  When Richard had started looking for a new place to live, this was the only unit he found that had a second floor.  That was very important to him.  An upstairs bedroom gave him a sanctuary where he could withdraw from the world.  Being able to run and hide, and, perhaps lick some personal wounds was necessary for him to survive these days.  Richard had always required a safe place, and this second floor supplied him with that.  The other attributes he found attractive were the low taxes and no outside maintenance on his part.  But they were still secondary to the need to have an upstairs bedroom.  The second floor sealed the deal.

He passed through the living room with its sofa, table and easy chair and continued on to the kitchen where he made a pot of coffee.  While the coffee machined groaned out its brew, he searched for an English muffin and some butter.  It was the last muffin and he was down to a half stick of butter.  He was going to have to do some serious food shopping today.

He looked around at all the things that required his attention.  Most of the kitchen stuff was where it needed to be, but the walls were bare.  They needed calendars and clocks and maybe some small photographs to make the room come alive.  This was the time he missed Drea the most.  The finishing touches to a room were her domain, not his.  She did the little things that transformed a house into a home.  He sighed and promised he would get to it, eventually.  He had a working TV and a telephone.  The cable company had been prompt.  One thing they did not want to do was lose a customer to a competitor.

He exhaled slowly, laboriously, as he studied the door that led to the one car garage.  Behind that door was a mountain of boxes with belongings he had no idea what to do with. They were taped shut and he had no idea what was in any of them.  Some had markings like BATHROOM or BEDROOM written on the side, but there was no indication what items were hiding away inside. They would remain a mystery until he got around to opening them.  He thought that might be a long time in coming.  It was a challenge he wanted to avoid.  Yet he knew he would have to tackle the project eventually, otherwise his car would never be able to claim its rightful place in the garage.  If Drea were here she would already be tackling the challenge with a sense of urgency.  He, however, could not find even the faintest spark within him to begin the task.

Winter is months away, he told himself.  I’ve got time before the snow starts.

The coffee machine announced through a beep that its assignment was completed.  He took his favorite mug from a cabinet over the sink.  The words, Seneca Island, were on it.  It was what he called a portly mug, round and stubby and black.  It reminded him of Santa Claus, despite its color.  It held a considerable amount of coffee, a plus.  Unable to sit still, he went to the TV room off the kitchen with his coffee.  A large LED screen hung from the wall, surrounded by two bookcases that held the books he had decided to bring with him.  He wished there had been room for all of his books, but the idea proved impossible.  He made a large donation to the local library, where they would be sold to interested readers for pennies on the dollar.  He took only a few authors with him, like Pat Conroy, Graham Greene, John Updike and a few special biographies that held meaning to him.  There are some old friends that cannot be discarded; one must remain faithful to them.  All of his journals he had written over the years went into the trash, except for The Second Circle, his account of Drea’s decline and death.  That one he would keep, for he knew his writing days were over. 

He checked the morning news on the TV to see what the idiot in the White House had screwed up while he was too busy to watch.  As usual, the President did not disappoint.  The man was an egotistical moron who could not keep his mouth shut.  The fact that there had been enough voters in the country to place him in office was frightening.  He loved to brag that he loved uneducated people.  Well, he had found them all and they had propelled him to the presidency.  Even more disconcerting, he had found enough lackeys to work for him and bow to his every moronic wish.  Richard thought his beloved country had become a banana republic, where the leader surrounded himself with relatives and sycophants.  All he could do was pray that the man would never be re-elected.  Bur Richard carried the uneasy feeling that this might be less than a sure thing.

Five minutes of the morning news was more than enough.  He turned off the TV and  went out the back door to the small patio that held a circular table and four chairs, topped off by an umbrella that poked its way skyward through the hole in the table top.  The sun was barely up, but already it was quite warm.  It was going to be a hot day.  He sat in a chair at the table and continued to sip his coffee. He could see the dew evaporating slowly from the grass. He paid homage to the blue sky above him.  If only every morning could be like this one.  The world would be a happier place.

He emptied his mug into the grass and walked around the outside of his new house.  He liked the Tudor look, especially at this time of day.  The sun was just gathering its strength, ready to shower its brilliance on all the world.  Soon it would bathe Richard’s new home in a golden glow that suggested a warm and comfy abode.  That was what he wanted:  warmth and coziness.  It was an old feeling that had deserted him years ago, when Drea began her downhill slide to oblivion.  The dark wood against the stucco gleamed with the sunshine, as if it had just received a glossy coat of varnish.  The white stucco shone with the dazzle of a young virgin, still unsoiled by the ways of the world.  Even though the complex was a little more than forty years old, it still appeared new, as if it had been built yesterday.  This was an exterior he could admire day after day without growing tired of it.

"It’s really not all that great, you know," a voice said from behind him.  In fact, I think you could call this place a dump, in all truthfulness.  I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.  It’s dull and uninteresting.  Not our style at all.

He did not turn around to see who was speaking.  It wasn’t necessary.  It was a voice he knew all too well.

But you are forgetting something—this is my house, he said, still admiring the edifice.  I picked this place because it makes me happy, or at least as happy as this life will let me.

Well, it doesn’t do anything for me.

You’re dead, Drea.  Your opinion doesn’t count anymore.  This is a whole new ballgame.  The only thing that counts is what I am thinking.

The voice behind him went silent.  He continued to admire his new home and not pay any attention to her.  Drea could be difficult at times.  She continued to prod him with her opinions, especially when he was at the moment of decision.  It had always been her way or the highway when they were married.  He had always taken the easy path and gave into her, but that practice came to an end when she died.  Yet she continued giving him the business, even though he made it clear he was not going to listen to her anymore.  More than once he had to think she was making a pain in the ass out of herself up in heaven.  Then they sent her back to earth to get rid of her for a while.  When she first began to haunt him, it was something of an unsettling experience.  But he was now used to her being there when he was alone.  One sharp word from him, however, would send her packing and then all would be quiet again.  He wished she did not visit him like this.  He wanted to keep her memory unsullied.  He would rather worship her memory than chide her for her unwanted opinions.

He stood still for a moment, waiting to see if she had left him.  After a few minutes of silence, he knew she was gone.  Sighing with relief, he took his mug back into the house for a refill.  He decided it was too nice not to be outside and so he returned to the little table on the patio.

Once seated again, he surveyed the units of his neighbors, all identical to his.  The uniformity of it all was a bit disconcerting.  There should be a place for some originality.  He was informed when moving in that everything that was outside his home was the realm of the Lenape Association.  The residents could look, but not touch.  While he liked the fact that he would never have to worry about cutting grass or take out a dead bush from the flower bed, it seemed somewhat stifling to know he could not own a bird feeder, rose bush, or a bed of impatiens.  The personal, human touch was missing.  What did that mean?  Did they think that everyone was too old to think for themselves?  Or did they think old folks would follow orders without question or complaint?  He didn’t like that prospect at all.  He figured that sooner or later he would have a run-in with those in control.  They would test each other’s mettle.  Then he would learn how things really worked around here.

He felt another presence, one he knew was not Drea.  He peered over his left shoulder and saw a small man standing a few paces away.  His hair was snow white and cut short to keep its maintenance to a minimum.  He probably weighed about a hundred and forty pounds. He had a hook nose in the middle of his wrinkled face.  His eyes darted around, saying he was a sly fellow.  They were what Richard would call Paul Newman blue, almost like ice.  Yet his grin was warm and impish.  He wore a black tee shirt with the neck stretched out, with tan Bermuda shorts, covered with grass stains.  His white socks had holes around the ankles and his shoes were actually golf shoes, complete with spikes.  He looked like a poster boy for the Salvation Army.

Hello there, Spider, Richard said.

The little man’s grin broke into a wide smile.  He was obviously pleased.  Ah, you remember my name.

How can one forget a name like yours?  Especially when you work in gardens and spend your day around bugs.

Well, we only met for a few seconds when you moved in.  I was breaking up your garden beds for some planting.  I was just about to turn on the sprinklers when the van showed up.

I guess you made a lasting impression on me.  I also appreciated the fact that you held off turning on the sprinklers until after the movers left.

The old man nodded with appreciation.  I should tell you my real name is Frank.  Frank Mueller. But I like to go by the name of Spider.  You can always call me that.

Richard smiled.  I’ll remember that.

Spider—Frank—took a few steps in Richard’s direction.  Their conversation so far encouraged him to keep talking.  So how do you like your new digs?

Richard studied his new home once again.  Then he offered a simple shrug.  It’s hard to say.  It’s too soon.  I like the exterior just fine.  But the inside is rather strange to me, I suppose.  I suppose I’ll like it just fine in the long run.  Right now it’s all too new to me.

Did the move go all right?

Yes, I would say so.  Now the job is to find everything.  The garage is full of stuff; it will take months to go through it all.

I could give you a hand, if you would like.  I watched the movers work.  They seemed to know what they were doing.  I’ll bet you the stuff in the garage is pretty well organized.  With a little help you could be settled in in no time.

It sounds like you’ve done this before.

The sly grin returned.  Yeah, I guess I have.  A lot of old folks move in here.  They need help, so I help them.

With all due respect, you are not a spring chicken yourself.

Spider straightened up to make himself as tall as his small stature allowed.  I’m eighty three years old, but I’m in good shape.  All of my parts are original and they all still work.  He exhaled with pride, as if he had just won a spelling bee at school.

Richard could only smile.  "Well, good for you.  That’s quite an achievement.

Good, clean living, he grinned.  And an occasional shot of whiskey.

Spider began to spit out a litany of rules and regulations that Richard would be required to obey.  He pointed to the fenced area that held the garbage dumpsters and the small wooden structure where Richard would leave his newspapers for recycling.  Tie ‘em up, Spider said.  No newspapers in brown paper bags.  The Boy Scouts pick them up to make some money.

He spun around and pointed north.  The mailbox is down there.  And off to the left is the clubhouse and the pool.  There’s tennis courts, as well, but they don’t get used too much.  The crowd in this village is mostly too old for that sport.  Again, the devious grin.

I suppose you play, however? Richard asked, his eyebrow arched.

Spider never broke stride.  I used to play, but now I can’t find anyone else that can keep up with me.  Do you play?

No, I’m afraid not.

Damn!  I guess I’ll have to keep looking for a tennis partner.

By now the sun was hovering overhead with all of its heated force.  The bugs grew quiet, especially the cicadas.  It was going to be a hot day.  It was time for them to retreat and wait for dusk to return.

Gettin’ hot, Spider said.  I guess I should get back to work.  Get as much done as I can while the gettin’ is good.  He abruptly turned around and walked away without another word.

Left alone, Richard returned indoors and refreshed his coffee mug yet again.  Then he went back to the patio and took a seat in his chair.  The patio was a small slab, probably about one hundred square feet.  He remembered that in the garage was the grill he had taken along with him.  He wondered if there would be enough room for it here on the concrete.  Off the top of his head, he doubted it.  But that was a problem for another day.  Right now he just wanted to drink a mug of coffee without any further interruption and enjoy the early morning before it became too hot to remain outdoors.

His patio faced another building of three units, an exact twin to his own.  He stared at the same sized patios that he had.  He was amazed at the conformity of the place.  Everything was exactly the same, no matter where he looked.  If Drea were here right now, she would complain at how boring it all was.  She would probably bring that up the next time she decided to visit.  He saw that all of the storm doors were identical.  He had to assume there was some contractor somewhere who had a deal to supply replacement doors when necessary.  Probably at highway robbery prices, as well.  It was further proof that individuality was sacrificed for conformity.  The local command had to be thou shalt not upset the applecart in Lenape Village.  To sin against this was trouble, for sure.

He had to wonder if there were any rebellious souls in the community that fought the status quo.  Upon looking around further, he had to conclude that if there were such folks, they were in hiding.  He had to admit, however, that conformity could be a good thing in a place such as this.  Lenape’s reputation was good, of that he was certain.  To buy in this community required a recommendation from someone already there.  It was Lenape’s goal to give its residents a safe and quiet environment to live out their senior years.  Nobody at this advanced age wanted to have to fight for something.  Nothing had changed here in over forty years and there were a host of people who appreciated the stability that the village afforded.  Richard had to admit he appreciated it, as well.  After the past turmoil of the past few years, he relished the idea that no trouble would be in his future.  Not even a snowstorm could upset the applecart in this place.  It would be taken care of, just like everything else.  Right now he had to believe he had landed in the ideal location, despite his reservations.

But then he looked up and saw a man coming toward him,  He lumbered as if he might fall over any second, even though he was short and close to the ground.  His feeling of being satisfied might not last much longer.  He hoped the man would veer off in another direction so that his privacy could continue, but then he realized he was about to have another visitor today. The man was coming straight at him.  He hoped this was because he was new to the neighborhood.  If this was to be the norm, he might have to put up a sign to sell the place.

His impending visitor, short and stocky, walked with splayed feet, making him look like a wobbling duck.  He wore a ring of white hair around his ears with the bald top shining from a fresh wash.  His face was ruddy, almost red, and full of wrinkles from too many years in the sun without sunscreen.  He smiled confidently as he got closer, then held out his hand.  Richard came to his feet.  He thought if the man had not gone bald on the top of his head, he would make a perfect Santa Claus by adding a white beard.

"Hello there, neighbor.  I’ve come to welcome you to the neighborhood.

Richard shook his hand.  Thanks.  That’s very kind of you.

The name is Edward.  Edward Wellington.  And yours?

Richard Truscott.  His visitor had a definite English accent.  Are you British?

Bloody yes.  Wellington was panting from his walk—waddle—across the grass.  Mind if I take a seat, old boy?  This walking business can make one tired.

Richard quickly produced another chair waiting against the wall of the house.  His British guest fell into with complete surrender.  Aah, that’s better. He adjusted his rump to fit the chair better.  The chair groaned as he sought a more comfortable position.  Wellington was more than plump and Richard hoped the chair could handle the strain.  He had purchased the chairs a long time ago.  There was not telling how much weight they could still bear.

Once situated properly, Wellington focused on Richard.  I’m very happy to see you come to the neighborhood, old boy.  This place has been empty for quite some time, which I found a bit troubling.  Lenape Village usually finds its replacements quickly.  An empty unit might make people wonder, if you understand my meaning.

This was an estate sale.  There are always some legal hang ups with this sort of transaction.  It takes a bit longer to get everything sorted out.  Or so my lawyer said.

Wellington nodded.  Yes, I suppose that could be true.  I have to hand it to you Yanks.  It seems that everything seems to take longer to get done in your country.  Lawyers seem to complicate things, don’t you think?  Good old Joe, who lived here, simply died.  The lawyers can’t change that.  So why all the bother when somebody is standing by, ready to move in?

You have a point.  Lawyers tend to complicate things.

Wellington was pleased that Richard agreed with him, as if that was something that did not happen often.  He moved on.  Have you a job or anything like that?

Not really.  I’m retired, but I do volunteer some time to a nursing home near here.

Oh?  And what do you do there?

I suppose you could say that my job is to buck people up.  Many of them think they are forgotten.  I try to convince them there those out there who really do care about them.  And what do you do?

I am a writer, Wellington replied with a slightly arrogant tone.  I produce my work under the pen name of David Wales.

A pen name.  That’s a nice touch.  I must say it has a ring of nobility to it.

Wellington smiled smugly.  Yes, I suppose it does, now that you mention it.  My publisher was the one who thought it up.  I wanted to use the name Nigel, but he dissuaded me.  Said the name was too fussy and completely out of date.  I really don’t care what he said.  I still like the name Nigel.  What do you think?

Richard smiled uncomfortably.  Could it be that this old geezer was just a bit eccentric?  Do I need a nut case for a neighbor?  I believe the name Nigel is…well, it’s very British.

Wellington, or Wales, beamed.  Yes!  I can see you understand!  More than that nitwit of a publisher does, that’s for bloody sure.

Richard tried to move on.  So, you say you are a writer.  I admire writers.  It’s a lonely profession, but one that can give great joy to a lot of people.  Sadly, I’m not familiar with your work.

Yes, I know.  I’ve never been published in America.  That’s something I hope to remedy in the very near future.  My work is well known in Britain, but I must confess that I am not a celebrated author.  I began my writing career as a correspondent.  I spent a good deal of time in Vietnam, during the war.

Richard quickly did some math in his head.  This author had to be in seventies, perhaps even getting close to eighty.  That must have been an interesting and exciting time for you.

Actually, it was more of a bore than anything else.  Damned hot and humid, that’s what it was.  Not the kind of weather for this old bloke.  Each morning I got up and hoped that you Americans had finally figured out that what you were doing there was absolutely futile so pack up and go home.  Then I could do the same.  Afternoon tea and a tolerable climate, that was the ticket I wanted.

Wellington looked up at the sky and squinted at the sun.  That sun up there is starting to remind me of those days.  Mind if I move a bit closer to you and enjoy some of that shade your umbrella is making?

No, not at all.  Richard moved over to allow Wellington to get some shade.  Sweat was already pouring off his forehead.  It wouldn’t be long before damp circles would appear on his shirt.

Thank you, old boy.  I dislike this time of year.  It’s too bloody hot.

Aw, it’s not that bad.  Wait until July rolls around.  Then you will know what hot is.

But it’s still not as bad as Vietnam.  There you just want to sit still and watch your body melt away into a big puddle.

Could I offer you something cool to drink?  It was becoming apparent that his uninvited guest was not going anywhere soon.  There were social obligations around here, he supposed.

Yes, that would do me fine.  A gin and tonic would do quite nicely.  Yes, I can see by the look on your face that you must think me a real sot.  It’s barely ten in the morning and I’m looking for gin.  I should remind you, old man, I work during the night.  All through the dark hours while you are asleep, I am at my writing table, putting words to paper.  This is now what I call the end of the day for me.  My bed is calling.  This would be my nightcap, if you will.

Richard nodded, indicating that he understood.  He knew that writers sometimes worked through the night, preferring to have only crickets disturb them.  John O’Hara, who Richard had admired when the author was still alive, was one of those writers who slept during the day.  He wrote some pretty good novels and short stories, almost all of them during the darkness of the night.  O’Hara had been a boozer who gave up the bottle in order to write.  Somehow, he did not believe that Wellington was one to keep dry.  Still, he had to be social, even in this early hour.  He remembered he had some gin somewhere.  He had always kept gin around for his friend, Colleen, who had lived with him for a time with her two granddaughters.

I know I have the gin, but I don’t have any tonic.

Yes, I understand.  That being the case, straight gin will do.  I’ll just pretend that the tonic is in the glass.  He winked.

Richard said, Okay.  I know you Brits do not favor ice.  Do you want it neat?

Wellington shook his head. Ice and gin go well together.  You Yanks got that one right.  Ice in a drink is a good thing.

Richard went inside and returned with a glass of gin on the rocks.  Wellington took it gratefully, then took a sip and sighed.  Ah, Bombay.  One of my favorites.  He looked at Richard.  I say, old boy, aren’t you going to join me?

I’m afraid it’s a bit too early for me.  I wasn’t up all night writing.

Still and all, not even a small dram?  I feel rather uncomfortable drinking alone.  Please join me, old boy.

Richard shrugged.  He sensed Wellington would keep on prodding him until he drank something himself.  All right.  I’ll have just a little.

Once again he returned indoors and returned with glass holding a splash of whiskey.  Wellington studied the amber fluid.

Is it scotch?  It seems to be the proper color for scotch.  Bourbon and rye whiskeys are darker.

Macallan, Richard said.

Ah, that was the favorite whiskey of James Bond.

So the books say.  More likely it was that of the author, Ian Fleming.

That Bond character, Wellington said sadly.  What a hoax Fleming put over on the world.  Bond was no Englishman.

Why do you say that?

Fleming always had Bond drinking vodka martinis.  No Englishman would be caught dead drinking vodka.  Everyone knows that the English use only gin in a martini. And they are never shaken, only stirred.  And only olives would do, never a lime twist.

And who really cares? Richard thought.  I never thought of that, now that you mention it.  But I suppose you could be right.  Gin is certainly an English liquor, for sure.

But of course it is.  We even taught our colonies about this wonderful elixir.  Just ask any good man from India what he would like to drink.  He will always ask for a gin and tonic.

Richard decided not to point out that he had never had a drink with an Indian, American or Asian.

Wellington pushed his empty glass toward him with a trace of arrogance, as if he were entitled.  A spot more of the Bombay would do just fine, if you don’t mind.  His face was reddening, either from the sun or from the gin.  Richard realized he was, indeed, sitting with a sot.  However, he picked up the glass and went back inside for a refill.

Glass replenished, Wellington began again.  I’d like to know how you are getting along without your wife.  I understand she passed away some months ago.  I am sorry for your loss.  The burden of being a widower cannot be easy on a man.

Richard arched an eyebrow.  I never mentioned anything about my wife.  How did you know about her and that she had died?

Wellington’s jaw drooped.  He realized suddenly that he had invaded private territory, which was a terrible mistake.  Now he had to grasp at a way of escape.  He grinned uneasily and squirmed a bit in his chair.  Oh, I believe it was Phoebe who told me, old man.

Who is Phoebe?  I don’t know anyone by that name.

Perhaps that is true now, but it won’t be much longer.  Phoebe Miller is what you might call the neighborhood watchman, or woman, in this case.  She considers this little cul-de-sac in Lenape to be her own private realm and she is the queen.  She must know everything about everybody and will go to all ends to find out what she feels she needs to know.  Even you, old chap, are not exempt from her prying.

So, you are telling me she is a busy body and a gossip?  Richard tried to keep his tone soft and calm, but he was not doing well at it.

Wellington was growing more uncomfortable.  Well, I suppose you could say that.  But she is not vindictive and means well.  She is more like a mother hen and we are all her chicks.  She feels it is best to know about everyone and keep the neighborhood on an even keel.  She believes the ends justify the means, sometimes.  You may not believe this, but she will grow on you.

We shall see, was all Richard would say.

I believe she is worth quite a bit of money.  Her husband left it to her.  At least that is the scuttlebutt, as you Americans call it.  He wiped his brow nervously.  He wanted to change the subject and hope this segue would work.

So gossip is big around here?  The daily sport, perhaps?

Well, you know how it is, old boy.  There’s a lot of old people here and they don’t have much to do.  So they go to the clubhouse and play mah-jongg, or poker or gin rummy.  Some guys toss horseshoes behind the club house in the pit.  Maybe bocce.  All simple games, but they all give people a lot of time to talk.

Are you one of them?

Wellington laughed.  Oh no, not me.  Like I told you, I work all night and sleep during the day.  None of the folks I’ve just talked about can stay awake past eight at night.  I’m on a different timetable from all of them.  No, I’m not a part of the rumor mill.

Richard did not believe him, of course, but did not say anything.  He was tired of this visitor and wanted him gone.  He looked at his watch, hoping Wellington would take a hint.

Wellington, despite all the gin he had consumed, saw that he had worn out his welcome.  His face was almost scarlet now.  The sun and gin were doing their job, but now embarrassment added to the mix.  He rose to his feet and tried not to sway.  I see I’ve taken up enough of your time, don’t you think?  I did want to introduce myself and welcome you to the neighborhood.  And I appreciate your hospitality.  Thanks for the drinks, old boy.  I know I will sleep soundly now.  Not even the lawnmowers will awaken me.

Before Richard could say anything further, he slowly turned around and began to waddle across the lawn in the direction from where he had come.  Richard was glad to see him go.  But he had to admit he had received some good information.  Perhaps it was a warning of sorts.  He had to figure a woman named Phoebe Miller would soon enter his life.  A rich old widow, apparently, and one that Wellington seemed to adore in his own fashion.  He hoped that Wellington would keep her to himself.  Richard was not interested in getting close to another woman.  He checked his watch again, this time for real.  Already, the morning was getting away from him.

He got to his feet and brought down the umbrella.  He placed the chairs neatly around the table, then grabbed his untouched drink and brought it into the house, where he covered it with plastic wrap.  He would drink it before he went to bed tonight.  Right now he had to think about getting to the nursing home, Hill Top, to make his rounds.  He returned to his bedroom closet and prayed he could find a decent shirt to wear, one that required no ironing.  He did not have a clue as to where the iron might be.  He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted a pale blue shirt with white stripes still in plastic from its last trip to the cleaners.  He pulled it from its protective sheath and donned it.  He chose a pair of navy Dockers, along with his cordovan loafers.  He washed his hands to make sure they were clean and then applied hand sanitizer to be sure.  One thing he had learned since taking on this nursing home job was that every attempt to reduce germs was a plus.  When dealing with the elderly, the smallest untreated germ could bring on unannounced death.

He checked to make sure the doors were locked and windows closed, leaving the air conditioning on a low hum.  More of Drea’s training.  He went to his car, parked in its designated spot with his unit number painted on the macadam.  Already he was itching to get the car into the garage, but he did not have the time to start working on that project now.  He pulled away from his new abode, creeping along at a sluggish twenty miles an hour.  He thought it wise to obey the speeding limit in the village until he had been a resident a while longer.  He thought it better to be a good neighbor than a rabble rouser. He kept reminding himself he had to live with these people.  He really wanted to get along with them, even Wellington.

2

T

he ride to Hill Top took close to thirty minutes.  It had been a shorter trip before he moved to Lenape Village.  When he first became acquainted with Hill Top, it was a place he visited every day to spend the afternoon with his wife, Drea, who lay in a vegetative state.  Each morning he went to Poole’s Inn and wrote in his journal, trying to make sense of the plight he found himself in.  It was then that he met Jennie Meyer, the nurse who oversaw Drea’s care.  They had become close friends.  After Drea’s death, Jennie persuaded Richard to continue visiting other residents of the home.  During his time with Drea he had become well known by many of the folks there and she thought his visiting them would do some good.  He owed Jennie a great deal and could not refuse her.

He must have looked confused and frightened to Jennie when he first started going to Hill Top.  He probably looked somewhat relieved, as well.  He had been trying to take care of his wife at home, until the burden became too much for him to bear.  A crisis at home brought the issue to a head and their doctor, Eichenbach, had to put his foot down.  Drea could no longer live at home.  She needed constant care, professional medical care, not something Richard could supply on his own.  Reluctantly, Richard ceded to the realities of his situation and Drea became a resident of Hill Top.  There Richard spent every afternoon, primarily pushing Drea up and down the hallways of the home, trying to converse with his wife and pointing things out as they wandered through the halls.  It became his mission in life, that somehow, by being with her every day, she would suddenly return to him once again.  Jennie took notice of his dedication to Drea and encouraged him every day to continue with his quixotic mission.  In a way she was his own private cheerleader.  They became friends and confidants.  He knew he was relying on her for support, but in some way she was doing exactly same thing with him.  What they developed was a mutual support system, one that kept each of them bucked up when either Drea was not doing well or Jennie’s job was more than she could handle.  He found it easy to talk with her.  The fact that she bore a strong resemblance to his daughter, Megan, did not hurt, either.

After Drea passed away, Jennie took Richard and asked him to volunteer at the nursing home.  She felt he should do it in order that Richard maintain his sanity.  He had developed a way with the older residents and served as a foil to the daily drudgery that each resident faced with the thought that the only thing left for them to do was die.  It was common knowledge that no one left Hill Top except in a body bag.  Richard, as stated earlier, accepted the challenge and for close to a year now, travelled several times a week to the home to visit with people he had come to love and admire.  At first he concentrated on those people with whom he was most familiar.  He found this to be a mistake.  When one of those special residents died, he took the death as a personal loss.  He did not need any more grief in his life than he already had.  Drea was still in his heart and he missed her physical presence terribly.  Additional agonies he did not need, nor could he handle.  Often he caught himself on the verge of tears because some remembrance flashed before his eyes.  He thought this unprofessional for the type of work he was supposed to be doing.  Once or twice he thought of quitting, but he feared the tongue lashing he would get from Jennie.  So instead, he stepped back just a bit and made polite, civilized visits and did not probe into the lives he met.  But quickly he had to ask himself what good was he doing.  He found polite visits were not rewarding, either to him or to the people he visited.  They were being shortchanged.  These old people deserved a listening, an understanding ear, and some empathy.  What he was doing was a sham.  Despite his fears, he broached the subject of quitting to Jennie, who immediately dismissed the idea.

"You are doing good, despite what you might think.  Our residents need folks like you.  Otherwise, all they would have is the four walls to talk to.  Don’t for a moment think you are failing at your job.  You are very important to the treatment we offer