Ripples Through Time
Read Ripples Through Time Online
Authors: Lincoln Cole
Ripples Through Time
A Novel by:
Lincoln Cole
Copyright © 2015
Lincoln Cole
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
0692503986
ISBN-13: 978-0692503980
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my family, who have given me all
the support in the world to put this together. Without them, none of this would
be possible.
“Not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and then
waiting for the rat to die.”
-Anne Lamott
A Modest Request
Present Day
The damned doorbell is ringing. I hate that sound,
that
tink, tink, tink
it makes with high pitched tones. I hate
it because it’s obnoxious; but I hate it even more because Mellie loved it.
Another ring. Whoever it is, they aren't patient.
I have been expecting her to send someone to check up on me.
To be honest, I’m surprised that it took this long. Little Bethany always
worries, especially where I’m concerned. Hell, ever since I turned seventy-nine
she seems to think I can’t do
anything
on my own.
And in some cases she’s right. Okay, maybe many cases. Most.
My hands are arthritic. My eyes blurry. The last time I tried to open a jar I
think I tore something.
But some things I can still do for myself.
Have
to
do for myself. This is one of them.
I shouldn’t have called. That was a mistake. That was
stupid. I was rambling, thoughtless. What some psychiatrist might call: ‘a plea
for help.’ Beth didn’t take my conversation seriously, I know, but even then
she couldn’t ignore
that
call. That would have been remiss.
And Bethany is anything but remiss.
Yet another ring rips my silent world apart.
“Hold your horses,” I grumble to myself, rocking forward. It
takes me a minute to get out of my chair. It’s ugly and red but comfortable as
hell. My knees hurt and pop as I stand. My ankles hurt. In fact, everything
hurts.
“Just a minute,” I say, shambling toward the door. I
have to weave around the leather couches and a discarded brown blanket. I would
have picked it up, before, just to make sure there was absolutely nothing
Mellie could trip on. But now…
Now I’m not sure there’s a point.
I push the curtain aside and peer through the window.
Nope, it’s not her
. Mild relief flows through me, but
it’s tinged with a sprinkling of sadness. I’m her father. She can’t spare a few
minutes of her busy day to come check on me herself?
Selfish thoughts, and I don’t need them. Just proves she
didn't listen to a word I said. If she had, I’m sure she would have jumped into
that tiny Honda of hers and sped right over.
Instead she is still at the office, filing paperwork with
the Grants and Loans Division of the State. Desperate to meet a deadline, my
Bethany. Desperate, and fiercely loyal. I can forgive her for being too busy at
work to come see me herself.
Yeah, sure.
Okay, maybe it hurts a little.
She’s a busy woman. I’m proud of her. But I knew, without a
doubt, she wouldn’t take me seriously.
That’s probably why I called her, come to think of it. I
didn't want
anyone
to show up at my doorstep, and especially
not Bethany or her husband Adam. I just wanted to give her a heads up. So she
wouldn't take it personally
after
. Let her know that I love
her.
That kind of thing. I’m sure everyone does at times like
these. Nothing special. Nothing dramatic. It was a weak moment, and by God I'm
entitled to those. At eighty-three I’m damn well entitled to anything I want!
And what I wanted was to say goodbye. In my own way. Just a
quick: “It’s been a good run, honey, but I’m off to see mom.”
Jason’s a night owl, not even awake at this hour I’m sure. I
didn't want to bother him with something this trivial. I don’t blame him. I’d
sleep too, if I could get more than a few hours each night. And Rickie…
Well, I haven’t talked to Rickie in ages.
And so it was Bethany’s number I dialed. First her home
phone before I remembered she was at work. But even expecting her to send
someone
,
I am surprised as hell to see Edward White’s lean and scruffy face through the
dirty glass window. Edward is a kid. Just turned fifty. Or fifty-five. Maybe
fifty-three. Hard to keep straight.
Don’t get me wrong, I like the guy. His wife bakes bread at
home in one of those mix-it-and-bake-it machines (that Mellie
hated)
and
will drop off a loaf every couple of weeks. Sometimes it’s still warm.
And the Whites were good to Mellie. Just plain old
good people. God fearing people. That sort is in short order these days. They
came over often, and they never once said a thing about Mellie’s condition.
Mellie would perk up whenever I told her the Whites were at
the door, and even though it exhausted her she would sit up and talk to them
for a few minutes. Those were on her good days.
On the bad ones I led them outside to the patio. And they
understood. She needed her rest, my Mellie. The Whites understood a lot, and if
in a pinch I had to call someone a friend who wasn’t already six feet under,
it’d be Edward.
But right now I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to
listen to him either.
I’m not worried that he’ll talk me out of it. No one can at
this point (I said my peace, and as far as I am concerned it’s done and over
with) but that doesn't mean I want to sit by and listen to him preach about how
God would want me to act, as if the Holy Father had taken a personal interest
in me.
I can’t
stand
any damn sermons.
Nevertheless, I open the door to let Edward in. It’s the
Christian thing to do, and last I checked this is still a Christian country.
“Hi, Calvin,” Edward says awkwardly. He’s got a polo shirt
on and tan shorts. Looks like a golfer. Slap some suntan lotion on his nose and
a flat cap to cover his brown hair and the image would be complete. Funny thing
is, I don’t think he’s ever golfed in his life.
His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at the wall
behind me. I remember that look from when he was a little kid growing up in the
house down the road. He’s worried. Worried about me.
I snort. Beth must have passed along the gist of my
message.
So much for bluffing. It’s like I can’t take care of my own
damn self. I’m sick of all of these people deciding things for me.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Come in,” I say as gruffly as possible. I want him to know
not to push his luck. I eye him for a long moment and then step out of his
way.
Edward hesitates. I know why. Until a few days ago I would
probably have guided him out to the patio, shushing him. At this time of day
Mellie would have been napping. She needed a lot of rest, and the pain…it was
almost unbearable at the best of times.
But not today. Today is different.
I gesture again, but Edward is still reluctant. Times like
these he reminds me of a guilty dog who knows he’s in trouble for pissing on the
carpet.
Oh well, outside it is. Old habits die hard, it seems. I
should know. I still putter around. Cleaning. Staying quiet as possible.
Preparing those same little meals of toast and honey or pickles and eggs she
always liked before remembering that Mellie…
“Outside then,” I agree, stepping out into the sunlight and
allowing the door to swing closed behind me.
My eyes adjust to the bright glare of the mid-afternoon sun.
I stretch out my back, grunting. It won’t relax like it used to, and I haven’t
heard a good pop in months.
When I look into the mirror, I see a hunchbacked old
monster, not the vibrant man I imagine myself to be. It doesn’t even faze me.
Familiarity is a cruel mistress.
Edward drags two patio chairs from the lawn and sets them
next to the table. He sits in one and I plop down on the other. Some time
passes as we settle in, and then I turn my attention to him. His eyes are
searching my face. I cross my hands over my belly, staring back.
If he wants me to speak first, he’s in for a surprise. I can
play the waiting game, and I can sure as hell out wait him. I went days without
talking while Mellie was having her episodes and couldn't communicate. I know
what it’s like to live in silence.
But Edward doesn't talk. At least not right away. He is
still staring at me, his eyes full of…
Hurt?
What does he have to be hurt about? I get that Bethany is
upset. What daughter wouldn't be? But Edward shouldn't be. He isn't
taking
this
personally is he? It’s not like I am doing this
because of him.
No, I decide, I will NOT be the first to talk.
“Bethany called, didn't she?” I ask. The question just slips
out.
“Yep,” Edward replies.
“She’s worried about me.”
“Uh huh.”
“And she sent you here to watch me. Make sure I don’t do
anything.”
“No,” Edward says.
My eyebrows pop up. But he might be lying. Why
wouldn't
Beth
send him over? Isn't she worried about me?
“Then why are you here?”
“I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m fine. Dandy. Jipper. What do you expect?”
“Honesty.”
Honesty
? No, he doesn’t want honesty. He wants
assurance. He wants validation, to know that he’s doing the right thing. He
wants an apology.
But I am not about to apologize. To him or Bethany. I said
what I said when I said it and I meant what I said.
“How are you, Calvin?” Edward asks.
I grunt. It comes out a lot weaker than intended, but that
makes sense. I’m eighty-four years old. The old voice box doesn't work like it
should.
The grunt is a mix between a laugh and a cough. Not really a
word, but it conveys what I want to say more effectively than any string of
English syllables I know of could.
I’m not completely sure Edward understands. I know how much
it annoys Bethany when I do that. It used to annoy Mellie too, years ago, but
after a while she understood. Sometimes I just don’t know the right damned
words.
I never was good with them. Why talk when there’s nothing
that needs said?
No I take that back. Put a half a bottle of whiskey in my
hand and some sour mix, and I’m the king of expression.
But I stopped that a long time ago. Funny thing is, I miss
it almost as much as smoking. Sometimes my hand starts shaking.
But I don’t know. Maybe I’m just old.
Damn, mind wandering again…
The point is, Mellie got it. She understood me. She never
pressured me to talk when I didn’t have anything to say. Edward will just have
to understand too. I’m eighty-one damn years old, broken, scared, and alone for
the first time in nearly sixty years. What the hell kind of question is ‘how
are you’? What damnable words are supposed to answer
that
?
I sigh and rub a hand across my face, feeling the rough
stubble on my wrinkly skin.
A bird chirps from up by the tree, almost like music. I try
to remember if I ever finished building that bird feeder Mellie asked me to put
together a few years back. Probably not.
A delivery truck slides past us down the road, heading to
Mrs. Polisheck’s house with a package. She gets one at least every week. Her
daughter likes ordering on that inter-web thing. Makes no damned sense.
“Bethany called me and said—“
“I know what she said because I told her,” I interrupt,
focusing back on Edward. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
Edward opens his mouth again, but then closes it without a
word. That is good. The truth is, I
don’t
want to talk about
it. I shouldn't have called Beth in the first place, and I don’t want people
worrying about me.
It’s my life, not theirs, and they shouldn't be getting
involved anyway. I've made up my mind, and as far as I am concerned there is
nothing else to talk about.
I have
nothing
to apologize for.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It just slips out. “I didn't mean to
make you worry.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. The hummingbird drifts
away, singing to itself as it goes. Cars hum in the distance, but very few are
close enough to see. Instead the engines add to the scenery, like the wind.
Our neighborhood is quiet. Condos, mostly, and old fogies
like me who don’t really leave home. I never planned for this life. And I
promised I’d never be old.
But look how that turned out. Joke’s on me I guess.
Before this condo we owned a house. A big one with brick
siding and two floors. That’s where we raised our kids for most of their lives.
It’s the first and only house we ever owned. On Bradford Avenue, two floors
with its creaking staircase and leaky pipes.
I always promised Mellie I would fix those pipes, plumb the
damn house if I had to, but I never did. Another thing left unfinished.
Another forgotten promise.
After we sold the house they tore it down. Put up a Walmart,
or something just like it. Out with the old. In with the new.
Progress, they call it.
Sometimes I’m glad that I’m old.
But this condo, small as it is, was always comfortable for
us. I lived here with Mellie for the last ten years. Never once did I regret
it.
“Chrissie got her promotion,” Edward said, kindly changing
the subject. “She was really excited about it when she called her sister. And
the wedding is sneaking up on us to. My tux is going to cost a fortune.”
I wrack my brain, but it won’t come to me. Which one is
Chrissie? The blonde or the chubby brunette? Definitely one of his wife’s
sisters. Or maybe a cousin.
That
much I do know.
In fairness, I’m an equal opportunity forgetter. I can’t
even remember the names of all my grandchildren. Sally, Susie, I think there’s
a Molly. Then there is Kevin, Mike—or Mack, I can never remember—and Peter. And
Lucas.
I knew a Lucas growing up. Strong man, good to his family,
smoked like a chimney.
I don’t know the new Lucas.
I’m sure there are more. There are even a few great
grandchildren. They all look alike. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my
life, it’s that all children pop out exactly the same.
