Crushed--Part II

I’ve taken the proper precautions.  Everything’s gonna be just fine.

When we came around the bend, there was Jake.  He sat almost on the edge of his West Virginia University camp chair.  He’s waiting.  For me.

            “How does he know what time it is?” my son said.

            I shrugged.  “I have no idea.”

            Jake lifted his chin.  “Dana?  Is that you?”

            “Yes.”  Your hair.  The gold's going silver. It looks good super short. Makes you look strong.

            “And Millie?”

            “Yep. She’s here.”

            “And me,” my son said.

            “Me?  Who’s me?”

            Silas pointed to his chest.  “Me.  I’m Silas.”

            “Silas?” Jake said. “Silas!  Man, last time I saw you, you were in a pumpkin seat.”

            Silas tilted his head. “You saw me?  But I thought you—“

            I covered his mouth. Squinted one eye at him.

            “I am blind,” Jake said. “But I haven’t always been.”

            “Do you know Braille?”

            I narrowed both eyes.  Exhaled through my nose. “Cool it,” I hissed through my teeth.

            Jake snapped his fingers.  Whistled a high note.  I liberated Millie.  She went to him, tail ticktocking.  Sat in front of him.  Gave him her paw.

            He accepted it.  “Such a good girl,” he said. 

            I watched him try to locate us.  I shuffled my feet a couple times. 

            “And, no.  I don’t know Braille,” Jake said.  “Not yet.  I’ve been putting it off.  I’m pretty sure it’ll be a pain.”

            “But how do you read?” Silas said.  I reached out and pinched his lips. Didn’t let go.  He took a step back.  Shook my fingers loose.

            “Honestly?  I haven’t had to.  Jenny does whatever reading needs to be done for me.”

            “You mean you don’t read just for fun?”

            Jake sighed.  “Silas, I’m gonna shoot straight with you.  It’s been a long time since I did anything just for fun.”

            In my mind I ran through a list of what I imagined he used to do.  For fun.  Read, play cards, golf maybe.  Watch television, go on family bike rides.  Play ball.  He’d told me years ago, when we sat next to each other at the parent run pre-school, that he’d played baseball.

            “I was really good,” he said.

            “Did you pitch?”

            “I did. How’d you know?”

            “Could you throw really fast?”

            “They didn’t have speed guns back then, but I struck out a whole lotta guys.  Pitched a perfect game once. In college.”

            “I have no idea what that is.”

            That had cracked him up.  “Ask your husband.  He’ll know.”

            Jake motioned toward the empty chair on his right.  “Sit.  Sit.”

            I put my notebook under the chair, then sat.  Adjusted my sun hat to shade my face.  I pointed to the ground next to where Millie was sprawled.  Silas dropped down beside her.  Ruffled her fur with his hand, then collected the wads of shed, white hair.  Blew on them and watched them float and drop.

            “Hey, Silas,” Jake said. “There’s another camp chair on the porch.  Why don’t you bring it down?”

            Silas stood.  “Okay.”

            Jake keyed on his footsteps and after a minute turned to me.  One corner of his mouth hitched up.

            “Did Joel make you bring him?”

            To protect me from a blind man?  I shook my head.  “No.”  I made me bring him.    “I didn’t want to leave him home alone.”

            Jake leaned back.  “Of course not,” he said. “What is he?  Twelve?”

            “Quit,” I said, “Besides, if I didn’t bring him, I would’ve had to sew you into a sleeping bag, like the courting scene in—“

            He grinned. “Like in Patriot?”

            I chuckled. “Exactly.”

            I twisted in my chair and glanced back at the house.  “Where’s Kevin?”

            “Soccer practice. The coach’ll bring him home later.”

            Silas returned with a green camp chair.  Pressed it down.  Spread it open.  Flopped into it.

            “Hate to make you get up so soon, Silas, but there’s lemonade in the fridge if you want to bring it and some glasses out. Or we can wait a bit.”

            Silas sprang up.  “I love lemonade,” he said.  He headed back to the house.

            Jake shifted forward.  I lay a hand on his arm. Just for a second.  “He’ll find it. You don’t have to go.”

            Jake sat back.  Sighed.  “It sucks.”                                                                              

            I know. I mean, I can imagine. “What does?” 

            “Everybody doing everything for you.  I mean, for me.  All the time.”

            I tucked my feet underneath me.  I think I’d like it.  For awhile anyway. 

            “Sorry,” he said.  “Don’t mean to be a downer.”

            Silas approached.  “I have to make another trip,” he said.  “There’s more stuff.”

            He set a tole-painted tray on the ground.  Handed me a glass of lemonade.

            “Here,” he said to Jake. Jake reached out, his hand a C.  Silas fit the glass into his grip.

            “Thanks.”

            He picked up the tray. “Be right back.”

            This time he brought a bread basket, Longaberger I think, topped with a tea towel that looked like the Irish flag.  There were plates and napkins too.  I pinched the cloth and lifted.  Banana bread.  Jenny.  I looked back toward the house.

            “Is she here? Jenny?”

            Jake shook his head.  “No.  She’s at work.  She’s always at work.” 

            “She had everything set out though,” Silas said.  “And little notes explaining everything.”

            “Did she?” Jake said.  Did she?

            “Yep.”

            I handed Jake a plate.  Then Silas.  We nibbled and sipped in silence.  I noticed the chocolate chips and coconut in the bread.  Hers is prettier though.  Bet she did an eggwash to make the top that shiny. 

            Jake put his empty plate on the ground.  Sat up.  “So?”

            I tilted my head.  So you’ve got crumbs on your face.  There.  And there. 

            I clasped my hands in my lap, beneath my empty plate. “So what?”

            “Are you going to read me a story?”

            “Oh, yeah,” I said.  I leaned over and stacked my plate on his.  Pulled my notebook out from under my camp chair.

            “She brought ‘em all,” Silas said. With his mouth full.  He lifted the three ring binder off my lap.  Placed it on Jake’s.  “It’s heavy, isn’t it?  She’s got a ton of stories.  What do you want to hear?  Funny?  Sad?  Hamsters?  Food?  Birth?  Death?”

            I took my stories back.  “Stop.  I know exactly what I’m going to read.  Jake was a ball player way back when. Baseball.  He was really good too.  Pitched a perfect game once, didn’t you, Jake?”

            Silas’s eyes bulged.  “No way.  Really?”

            Jake ran his hand across his chin.  You got ‘em.  Most of them anyway. 

            “Really.”

            “That’s awesome.”

            Jake’s mouth pulled to one side.  “Yeah.  It was pretty cool.”

            I opened my notebook. Flipped through the stories.  I had them in alphabetical order. 

            “Hey, Silas,” Jake said. “Kevin has a Wii down in the family room.  If you want—“

            Silas stood so fast his camp chair fell back.  He righted it, then came over and stood in front of me.  He blinked several times, like Puss ‘n Boots in Shrek.

            “Can I?”

            I reached out and adjusted the waistband on his shorts.  “May I.  Sure.  Go on.”

            “Through the side door and down the steps,” Jake said.

             A minute later Silas waved from the back porch.  “Thanks.”

            We’re alone now.  That’s not the way I planned this.

Crushed--Part I

When I saw Jake that morning, I didn’t know whether to speak or not.  How long had it been?  Since I’d seen him?  Ten?  Twelve years?  He wasn’t facing me, but what if he heard me?  They say when you lose one of your senses, all the others improve.  Pitch in to make up for the loss.

            I found out he was sick when I saw his name on a jar at the Exxon station at the bottom of the hill—Jake Wilhelm Medical Fund.

            I pointed to his picture.  “What happened to him?”  I asked the cashier. “To Jake?”

            The woman touched the jar lid tenderly.  Outlined his picture with her fuschia fingernail.  Sighed.

            “Poor sweet man,” she said.  “The big C.  Hit him like a tractor trailer.  But he’s a fighter.  He may be blind now, but he’s not dead.  He’ll beat it.  I just know he will.”

            I pushed a five into the jar.  That was ages ago. 

I used to walk past his house every now and then.  Whenever I got the notion I should start exercising again.  I’d raise my hand toward his house and whisper a prayer.

            “Heal him, Lord.  And give him strength.  Jenny too.  Please?”

            After a few years I started to wonder if maybe he died.  I should Google his name. See what comes up.  I never did.

            Then I saw Jenny at the grocery store.  In the produce section.  We stood right next to each other, picking out organic bananas.  She chuckled when I removed the adhesive strip and split an eight bunch in half.

            “I only need four,” I said.

            She nodded.  “I do the same thing,” she said.  “Otherwise they get all brown and spotty and—“

            “And then you have to bake banana bread.”

            “Not that banana bread’s bad.”

            I shook my head.  “I love banana bread.  I put coconut and chocolate chips in mine.”

            Her mouth o’d at the thought.

            I put the bananas in my cart and turned back to her.  “Jenny?”

            She pivoted in front of the green beans.

            “Do you remember me?  From our kids’ preschool?”

            She squinted.  “It’s Dana, right?”

            I nudged my cart closer to hers.  “Yeah.  How’s Jake?”

            Her right eye crinkled.  Her breath sucked in through her nose and sissed out slowly through her teeth.

            “Oh . . .  He’s hanging in there.  He’s with his best friend from college right now.  In Ohio.  I--  I needed a break.  They’re having a great time.”

            I smiled.  “That’s . . . I’m glad to hear . . . That he’s—“

            She nodded and reached into her cart.  Propped her fallen pineapple in the corner so it wouldn’t crash again. 

            I backtracked for raspberries.  Meant to tell her goodbye but when I got back to my cart, she was gone.  Up near the dairy case.

I spoke from the curb.  “Howdy, Jake.”  I considered telling him the top of his head was getting pink.  I didn’t. 

            He turned toward my voice.  “Say something else, but not your name.”

            I wrapped my dog’s leash around my wrist a few times.  Stepped into his yard.

            “I’ve always loved your house,” I said.  “My grandmother had a sleeping porch like—“

            “Dana.  Dana Martinelli.  From Kevin’s pre-school, right?”

            I tilted my head.  “Wow.  You’re good.”

            He swung his arm out to the right.  It brushed the camp chair beside his.  His hand searched for, then patted the armrest.

            “Sit.  Sit.”

            “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m walking my dog.”

            “What’s her name?”

            “Millie.”

            Jake snapped his fingers.  Whistled.  “Here, girl.”

            “Actually, she’s deaf,” I said.  “And old.  She’s fourteen.”

            “Drop her lead,” Jake said.

            I let go.  He kept snapping.  And whistling.  The sound was shrill.  Millie cocked her head.  Moved toward him.  Her nose brushed his hand and he found her ears.  “So soft.”

            “Yeah,” I said.  “I started walking her three times a day, back in March.  When her sister died.”

            Jake cradled Millie’s muzzle in his hands.  Thumbed her cheeks.  “Was she sad?  After her sister died?”

            I waited to see if my eyes would burn.  They didn’t.  “For the longest time, I didn’t tell her.  Wouldn’t let anyone say her sister’s name.  Finally I told her and she didn’t budge or flinch at all.”

            Jake nodded.  “’Cause she’s deaf.”

            “Exactly,” I said.  “Now she’s bonded to me. Has to be right beside me or else she's Moaning Myrtle.”

            Jake looked up at me.  In my direction, at least.  He’s so golden. And those eyes--  I can stare all I want and he'll never know.

            “You sitting yet?” he said. 
            I lowered into the chair.  Millie dropped to the ground between us.  Crossed her front paws in that lady-like way that always makes me smile.

            “So.  How’ve you been?”

            I twisted my hair up in a bun and leaned back to secure it against the chair. 
            “Oh, busy.  You know how it goes.”

            “Used to.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” he said.  He touched his head.  Gingerly.

            “It’s burning,” I said.

            “Thought so.”  He pulled a canvas bag out from under his chair.  Rooted in it. Produced a tube of sunscreen.  Took the lid off. Dabbed some on his head.  He missed a spot.  A blob of white.  I made fists.  To keep from reaching out.  To rub it in.

            We were quiet there for a few minutes.  I tried to decide if it was comfortable or not.
            “So Jenny tells me you write,"  he said.  "She saw you read at the library.”

             I nodded.  “Yep.  Last fall,” I said.  “She was there?”

            “Yeah.  She said you’re good.”

            I wrinkled my nose and grinned.  “Aw.”

            He clasped his hands behind his head.  Arched his back.  Relaxed.

            “I’ve always loved being read to.”

            I leaned forward and plucked a blade of grass.  “Me too,” I said.  “I reckon most people do.”

            “I wonder . . . “

            I waited a minute.  “Yeah?”  I said, but I knew, thought I did anyway, what he’d say.

            “I wonder if you might . . .  read to me?” His voice rose on me.

            I twirled the grass with my thumb and middle finger.  Bingo. 

            “You don’t have to,” he said.  “If you’re—“

            “No,” I said.  “I can.  I will.  I like reading aloud almost as much as I like to write.”

            He smiled.  At the house, not me.  “Tomorrow?  Same time?”

            I glanced at my watch and stood.  One thirty.  “Okay.  I’ll come tomorrow.  With a story.”