Martha's Last Visit

'Hi, Martha. Where have you been?"

"She's gone, Dad."

"No. She's standing in the doorway."

"No, she...."

"Just, leave it be, Jack.  He sees her.  So what."

"How's the garden look, Martha?'

"She says it's looking great, Pops."

"Let's go out and see."

"It's almost dark and you're a bit too weak, Dad"

"Maybe tomorrow, Pops.  Are you hungry?"

"Not a bit.  Had a good dinner, didn't we Martha?"

"Great.  How about pain.  Need a pain pill?"

"Nope.  Never felt better.  How about a beer?"

"Probably not a good idea, Dad."

"Why, Jack? He can have whatever he wants.  I'll grab one Pops."

"Get one for Jack, too."

"No thanks, Sis.  I'll have one later."

"You heading home, Jack?  You just got here."

"We've been here half the day, Dad.  Nurse Wendy said you didn't look good."

"What's she know.  I probably coughed and. she panicked."

"Here's your beer, Pops.  Just sip at it for now."

"Thanks, Jenna.  Tastes wonderful.  Get one for your mother."

"She has one on the porch, Pops."

"Jenna! Let's not play games."

"Just keeping him happy, Jack.  Look, that beer made him doze off."

"Let's chat in the other room."

"Sure.  Let's just not argue about his care.  He's dying, Jack."

"But we don't need to hurry it along, Jen."

"I suspect that would be just fine with him.  Lying in bed was never something he enjoyed."

"We can be supportive without hastening his demise.  Let's just let him sleep and we'll say our goodnights when Debra arrives."

"Sounds reasonable."

"Quiet now Jack.  Don't wake him."

"I'm not sure he's breathing, Sis."

"Oh my God. Check his pulse, Jack."

"Nothing, Jen.  He's gone.  Rest in peace, Dad."

"Love you, Pops.  Go find mom.  Tell her we said hello."

Saving Lives

   "Can you open the deep end for swimming, Ned?"

   I knew who it was before I looked down from my chair.  There stood Joey Keller, wet hair plastered against his scalp, a shiver spreading across his skinny frame and a bubble of snot emerging from his left nostril.

   "Sorry, Joe.  Too crowded today and too many divers."

   As if to make my point, one of the teen-aged boys cannon-balled toward my guard chair, drenching Joey and me.

   "Ok," said Joey, wiping his nose with his forearm and then running off across the wet pavement.

   "No running," I yelled but he ignored me.

   Scanning the crowd on the lawn across the pool, I saw Sandy Billings, lying back on her lounge chair and apparently reading a novel.  How I missed her arrival in a stunning red two-piece was beyond me but I was determined to say hello when we rotated our guard positions.

   Just as that opportunity arrived, I was greeted by Jim Thomas, our manager, who handed me a garbage bag and a strainer.

   "You've got butt duty this afternoon, Ned."

   "Terrific," I said, reaching for the equipment to sift cigarette butts from cement ashtrays spaced around the pool.  Fortunately, one of these receptacles was near Sandy and I took my time at that location.

   "I see they give you the important jobs," she said, smiling behind her large, round sunglasses.

   "I am highly qualified for all my life-saving duties," I said. "That reminds me.  You still plan on nursing school this fall?"

   "You bet," she said.  "We'll both be saving lives."

   "Then take notes," I suggested.  "I'll be out here all afternoon."

   Once I completed my rounds, I rejoined the guard rotation, enforcing adult swims and disrupting aggressive horseplay while enduring the good-natured taunts from inebriated club members.

   Heading to the office for a break, I was stopped by Jim once again.

   "We've got a problem," he said, "Poop in the baby pool.  I'll clear out the moms and kids and you go get the scooper and chlorine granules."

   A few minutes later, I was standing at the edge of the circular kiddies pool, doing my best to snare the source of an all-too-common emergency.  Looking up at the expanding onlookers, I saw Sandy, pretending to take notes on her palm.

   "Rescue of the day," she said, turning to head home.  

True Stories

   An admirer of her work for many years, I finally met Sylvia Marshall at a local bookstore.  She was signing her latest collection of short stories and I couldn't wait to devour them.

   Waiting in line, I was surprised by her appearance.  Short and thin with a mop of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses, she looked up to thank each customer with nothing more than a smile.  As one who seemed to know me so well, she was alarmingly passive.

   How could this tiny person in a pale yellow dress know about my absent father and my domineering mother?  How could she write about my failed relationships, my struggles with alcohol and my thoughts of suicide?  Who kept her informed about my loss of faith in God and humanity?  Somehow, she bared my soul in each story.

   When I finally reached her desk, she signed a book, gazed up through her thick lenses and said something that I could not understand.  Though I wanted clarification, I was forced ahead by the lady behind me and moved on to the cashier.  What had she said?  It sounded like "Thanks for the inspiration."  Could that be? Have I been right all along?

   I rushed home to read the stories and to see what else she knew.