There’s that blasted radio again. It’s cranked up to maximum volume on an unworkable station, so that the constant buzzing, hissing, and popping is a visceral thing that slithers its way into my eardrums. God tunes the station and the static quiets. I look at the ceiling with squinted eyes and pull harshly at the corners of them to knock away the sleep sand. I try to sit up. The bed is empty beside me, the pillow neatly fluffed and the blanket folded. Whoever sleeps there is too neat. The hands on the small clock on the bedside table are straight and smooth, unlike the wrinkles that have formed on mine. When did that happen? The framed picture of Jesus beside the clock is a familiar face; the only man I still know from my past.
“Got to get up,” I say. My hands feel heavy on the smooth nightgown and I drop the slippers three times before I can grip them. If my hands are heavy then my feet are anchors that tie me down to the depths of a noisy ocean. I slide them into the black slippers and struggle to the door. The handle jiggles, but will not move.
“Goddammit, open the door!” I yell frantically. Whoever slept in the bed is out there—I know it—probably laughing at my feeble attempts. I pound my tiny fists against the wood. The heaviness of my hands prevents me from doing anything more than making the old door rattle in its frame, shaking the drywall. I look at my hands, now bent and shamelessly useless, and think of the deftness they were once capable of. Why won’t they let me out? I hear footsteps and press my ear against the door as I imagine God is pressing the radio to my ear.
“Shirley? Now hold on just a minute, love. Let me put the milk away.” Oh, it’s a man. I vaguely remember a puff of white hair and skin marked with age spots. I make a face at the door and fold my hands over my chest. I remember suddenly that I am not wearing a bra—a strange man cannot see me like this.
“You’re not allowed in. Don’t you dare open that door.” That will make him understand. Maybe buy myself enough time to get my robe from the closet. I walk to the dresser and open the drawers. What was I looking for? Ah, yes. The cotton socks bundled toward the back. I hear him at the door now, turning a key in the lock as if he is the master of my comings and goings.
“Socks again, love? Let’s go and have some breakfast together. What do you say?” he grabs my arm and places the socks into the drawer.
I shuffle in my slippers down the narrow hallway. My feet know the familiar path so I look at the walls and ignore the man. Pictures of a young couple taunt me with their smiles. I imagine the strangers’ life for them: a wedding in a small backyard, years of trying before a beautiful black-haired baby girl, sweethearts from high school just slightly stale from the years together. If I knew them it was long ago, before I was stuck in my house with a no-named old man. The radio spits static into my ear and I see the round kitchen table. Toast, my favorite, is sitting on a plate with a spoon for the butter and jam.
“Hmmph. I don’t like toast. What horrible service,” I say. I watch his eyes. They’re blue like the creek I used to swim in as a child in Idaho. I look him up and down slowly, searching for any clue of who he is. Perhaps he is a caretaker. He looks in need of more care than me if that’s the case. “What’s your name anyway? I hope you don’t expect a tip from me.”
“My name is Howard and a tip won’t be necessary. I’ll just leave you alone as you eat,” he says and for some reason I think he looks sad, as if he is the one experiencing the terrible service. He walks away from the table with a slow limp, one foot coming down harsher than the other in a strange rhythm. He turns slightly to the old radio on the counter and adjusts the station. It’s too much with the radio in my head and I look down at my food to ignore it. The toast would be better if I had a knife and not a spoon to spread on the butter, but the coffee helps. He’s come to stare at me from the doorway and the pen shakes in my hand while I try to ignore him and finish the crossword puzzle. Watch all you want. After a minute of this I take pity on him and smile because the heavy frown on his face is etched with deep wrinkles and, for some reason, I think I may have caused them.
He approaches me with a curious expression of expectation like I’m going to lunge at him. The anchors wouldn’t allow that. Howard (was that his name?) is timid, but I like the way he smiles. It makes me think of long drives through pine tree lined roads and smeared red lipstick. It is quite possible that we knew each other in a past life.
“How was your toast, Shirley?” he asks me after a time.
“Quite good, thank you. Except for the spoon,” I answer politely. He keeps looking at me and I notice greying inky eyebrows that betray the color his hair once must have been. “You look like this old boyfriend of mine. He was something else, let me tell ya. Jet-black hair, blue eyes, a smile with higher wattage than any light bulb I’ve ever seen. Can’t seem to remember his name, though…”
“He sounds really great,” Howard says with a small smile. “What do you remember most about him?”
I think about this for a moment. What do I remember most? There’s the radio; the buzzing and popping becomes louder in my ears and I’ve forgotten the question. Howard does look so much like the other man. But he was a boy and that was before my hands wrinkled and felt bound with tape. He asked a question. Yes, I remember.
“I remember the smell. He always smelled of hickory.”
“What happened to him?”
“He faded away, as did the smell. I suppose he must be thinking of me somewhere. I swear I can almost hear his voice sometimes. Little hints and memories,” I say. Howard clears his throat and seems to choke on his words like they’re a dry piece of toast.
“Maybe he’s closer than you think,” he says but I doubt it. “What do you want to do today?” I stand up and walk unsteadily to the window, feeling very alone. The large window overlooks the small patch of green I think I once called a yard, but the flowers are bright and I see only three wispy clouds. Similar clouds always dotted the sky during summers at the creek. I met the boy at a time when my tongue and wit were equally sharp, but he softened my edges with smooth hands. I feel suddenly anxious and look down at my thin nightgown. No bra!
“I can’t do anything today. I need to go back to my room immediately,” I say attempting to rush down the hallway with the anchors. My slippers try to keep up with me, clinging fiercely to my aching feet. I fling them off; stupid things. Slamming the door behind me, I trigger the broken inner lock and it rattles loudly. He doesn’t understand that I need to be alone from all the confusion.
I wake from my hazy nap. Piles of socks and undergarments lie around me in the bed. What are these for? The radio clicks on again and I pound at my head, but I cannot drown out the noise. I remember there is a man whose name begins with ‘H’ or ‘A’ or something. It seems like he works for me and likes me well enough so I might be able to convince him to make me food. The idea slithers through my mind like a garden snake underneath the shrubs; once it’s gone, I can no longer hope to follow.
“Come Fly With Me” begins suddenly. That’s a new one; I guess God decided to change stations. I hum and walk to the closet to pick my best dress with the matching flowered belt. I put my hat on and pin up the last curl under the rim and walk to the door where the music becomes louder. It’s unlocked. Why shouldn’t it be? I hear the man speaking loudly, covering the music with his voice and I make my way slowly down the hallway. I ignore the photos this time, more curious about the man and who in the world he could he talking to. I pause in the doorway of the kitchen. His arched back is facing me and he grips the counter with one gnarled hand and the phone with another. There’s a ring on his left finger.
“Today’s not a good day,” he sighs. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried music, but she ignores it. You know she talked about her ‘old boyfriend’ again?” He pauses. Who is this ‘she’? I crane my head to hear more.
“Sweetie, I know you want to be home for your mom. Your husband’s work in Germany is important. I’ll be fine here, but we need to accept that she isn’t our Shirley anymore.” He stops tapping his finger against the counter and moves his hand to wipe swiftly across his eyes.
“Don’t even say that word.” He’s harsh now. “Alzheimer’s is a terrible thing, but my wife is still in there.” Alzheimer’s? The noises stop in my ear for a moment. The word sounds like a dirty one by the way he spits it out, hissing the s like the snaking thoughts in my mind. Maybe he means a different Shirley.
“No, she can’t hear me. She’s been asleep for hours,” he answers. He must mean me. The noises come back full force now so that I cannot hear anything above the spluttering and popping. My breaths come in short bursts and I grab my ears yelling for everything to stop, stop, “STOP.” The man turns around when he hears my outburst. His panicked face concerns me, but I pull at my hair and ears to make it all go away.
“She heard me, I have to go. I’ll call you later, sweetie. I need to be with her now.” He hangs up the phone.
“Shirley, now you look at me for a minute. That’s right, look right at my eyes and take a big breath,” he coaxes me. His eyes are so familiar. “Good job. Take a few more breaths. Here, let me have your hands and I promise the noise will go away.” How can he promise such a thing? Does he know God? I focus on his eyes and the soothing quality of his voice. With a few more breaths I hear Frank Sinatra over the popping noises. My body stops shaking.
I look up again and see the same blue that meant nothing but a faded memory of a childhood summertime, but I hear “The Way You Look Tonight” and hum softly as I clasp his hands and begin to dance. I put my head slowly on his shoulder and inhale the tang of hickory.
“Howard,” I sigh. “How I’ve missed you. Remember when we first danced to this? On our wedding?”
He gasps and stops swaying back and forth. “But I –Shirley?”
“I’m here, Howard. I know who you are. I don’t think it will be for long, but I’m here,” I say as the tears build. I can already feel the sharp edges of the disease I ran from for so long erasing my present moments.
Howard smiles at me with every ounce of affection I know he has had to hold back for so long and, for a minute, he softens my edges like he used to.
“’Some day, when I'm awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you…’” he croons as we begin to sway again.
“’…And the way you look tonight,’” we sing together. I close my eyes, knowing if I open them I could forget. For now, it is enough.