AN INSISTENT KNOCKING WOKE Ben Hunter from a dream that had plagued him during his three-year stint as an anesthesiologist. The dream had vanished shortly after he changed specialties, returning to the University of Ottawa at the age of thirty to study Geriatrics, and it surprised him vaguely that it had cropped up again now, after so many years.
In the dream, he was doing an urgent case in the OR. He never knew what type of procedure it was, the sterile drape blocking his view, but he knew it was critical: blood bags under pressure; vital signs unstable. There was the stress of it, his own racing heartbeat loud in his ears, and now the surgeon saying, “Is he waking up?” just as the patient’s arm rose off the arm board. Ben tried to restrain it, but now the other arm angled up, snagging the screening drape, and Ben saw the man’s knees strike the instrument tray, tipping clamps and retractors onto the floor in a clatter intensified by the screams of the nurses—
The knocking came again, more insistent this time, and Ben sat up, disoriented in his own day-lit room, startled to find himself fully dressed.
Then he remembered smoking pot with the boys, and…
But the rest was a blur, his skull feeling like it was filled with sludge now, sitting up like that bringing the feeling on.
Jesus.
That knocking again.
The door. There’s someone at the door.
Ben got to his feet, using the edge of the nightstand to steady himself. Raising his voice, he said, “Hold your horses,” and padded out to the door.
It was Quinn.
Yawning, Ben said, “What do you want?”
Quinn bulled past him into the kitchen, saying, “Is that any way to speak to a friend?” He helped himself to a cider, popping the cap with a Simpsons bottle opener as he sank onto the couch in the living room. “What do I want? I want to know if you’re planning on wearing that wrinkled shit to the variety show in—” he set the opener on the coffee table and checked his watch “—forty-six minutes.” Still standing by the apartment door, Ben regarded him quizzically, and Quinn said, “The twenty-fifth anniversary celebration? The variety show? My goddamn standup comedy debut? Jesus, man, get the lead out.”
Making himself at home, Quinn turned on the TV—already tuned to CNN, another violent immigrant crisis in Europe—and scanned to the Comedy Channel, saying, “Oh, look, Robin Williams. You know, after he died—Christ, fourteen years ago now?—it was months before I could watch him in anything without bawling like a ninny. Goddamn shame.” He looked at Ben, still standing by the door, and said, “Will you for Christ’s sake get ready?”
* * *
In addition to the usual amenities—billiard hall, tennis courts, golf simulators, exercise room—the rec center housed a spacious community hall reserved for concerts, weekly dances, and the variety shows the residents sometimes hosted for special occasions. Tonight’s program included a series of talent spots showcasing residents and staff, followed by a dance with live music provided by Relic, a house band made up of a rotating roster of residents. Ben played drums for them sometimes, but he wasn’t scheduled to perform tonight. He’d put himself through university playing in a bunch of different bands, and he enjoyed keeping up his skills. These days when he played, it was usually in a three-piece outfit modeled after the legendary power trios of the sixties: Hendrix, Cream, giants like that. The other two guys were former classmates from Hillcrest High: Bill Huggins on guitar and vocals, Roy Segree on bass. They only played the classics, and the old hippies ate it up.
Wilder joined them now, sitting next to Ben at the round table Quinn had reserved near the stage.
“Jesus, Wilder,” Quinn said, glancing at his watch. “Talk about cutting it close. I go on in three minutes.”
Smelling of weed, Wilder said, “I’ve already heard all your dumb jokes, Quinn. I’m here for the girl group.”
Quinn said, “Screw you, man, I’ve got all new dumb jokes,” then grabbed the program, saying, “Girl group?”
Half-listening to his friends’ banter, Ben spotted Roxanne in her staff uniform, balancing a tray of hors d'oeuvres. His first instinct was to wave her over, but she looked busy and distracted and he decided against it.
Glancing at the act currently onstage—a pair of eighty-plus jugglers, the taller one holding a handkerchief to his partner’s face now, the tenpin the man had just taken in the beak drawing an alarming amount of blood—Ben said, “Tough act to follow, Quinnsy. You know how these animals love blood sport.”
Quinn told him to kiss his fragrant arse.
Now the evening’s MC toddled up to the mic on a walker, glancing every few seconds at the humiliated jugglers, waiting until they left the stage before introducing Quinn. She got his name wrong, saying, “Next up we have Ed Quaid in his standup comedy debut,” and Quinn hopped to his feet saying, “Wish me luck.”
Wilder said, “Break a dick,” as Quinn climbed onstage, taking over the mic amidst a polite chatter of applause.
Grinning up there now, watching the MC stump her way into the curtains, Quinn said, “Let’s hear it for the bleeders—I mean the jugglers,” and actually got a laugh out of the sizeable crowd.
As Quinn introduced himself, Wilder said, “Whatever possessed him to do standup? The man’s about as funny as a high colonic.”
“Jesus, Wilder, give him a chance,” Ben said. “What the hell. We should be supporting him.”
“Are you still high?”
“About that. You said the stuff was uplifting, energizing—your exact words—and I woke up fully dressed on my bed this afternoon with Quinn banging on the front door. I can’t remember a thing after that second toke.”
Wilder said, “On a good day you can’t even remember your name,” and grinned.
Ben knew he hadn’t said it to be mean, but it stung just the same. Shrugging it off, he turned his attention to Quinn, a goofy look on the man’s face up there now as he launched into his first bit.
“True story, folks. A love story, really. Old dude down the hall from me’s gotta be eighty-five, has a crush on this dame with Parkinson’s and no teeth.” He tipped a wink at Wilder. “He’s a shy geezer, but finally one night he screws up his courage and invites the lady over for dinner. Well, one thing leads to another, and before you know it they’re in the sack together.” A few doubting giggles from the crowd now, and Quinn said, “I kid you not. Anyway, afterward, the old guy’s not looking very happy, and his new honey says, ‘Wally, you don’t look very happy,’ and Wally says, ‘To be honest, Myrt, I feel kind of guilty.’ ‘Guilty?’ says Myrt. ‘Whatever for?’ And Wally says, ‘Well, if I’d known you were still a virgin, I’d’ve been more gentle.’ And Myrt says, ‘That’s okay, Wally, if I’d known you could still get a hard-on, I’d’ve taken off my pantyhose.’”
For a long beat, dead silence from the crowd. Then the place erupted in laughter and applause and Quinn said, “Old Wally must’ve been wondering why her feet were going…” using his hands to pantomime Myrt’s feet flapping like the flippers on a seal. Even Wilder busted a gut, giving Quinn a series of bawdy hoots and shrill whistles.
As Quinn took a bow, Ben was startled by a pair of warm hands covering his eyes. Now the hands were withdrawn and Roxanne leaned over his shoulder, hair smelling of jasmine, radiant smile warming his heart.
She said, “Your friend is really funny.”
“Funny looking,” Wilder said.
Ben said, “Vince Wilder, this is Roxanne Austen.”
Wilder shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Roxanne.”
“You too, Mister Wilder.” Patting Ben’s shoulder now, she said, “I’ve only got a minute. Just wanted to come over and say hi.”
Ben said, “I’m glad you did.”
“I’m here again tomorrow,” she said, starting away. “Wanna join me for lunch?”
Ben said, “Cafeteria food? Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Dial nine-oh-one-two on a lobby phone and I’ll come right down.”
Roxanne repeated the number, then scooted away.
Watching her go, Wilder said, “A bit young for you, don’t you think?”
Ben glared at him, fists clenched. “Jesus Christ, Wilder, why do you have to smear everything in filth?”
Startled, contrite, Wilder said, “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Red-faced, Ben apologized, startled himself at the vehemence of his reaction. He felt a dull pressure rising in his skull.
Onstage, Quinn was just wrapping up another gag, something about a guy asking his wife why she never let him know when she was having an orgasm and the wife saying, “’Cause you’re never there.” Wilder snorted laughter, but the joke fell flat with the rest of the audience.
Looking worried now, Quinn said, “So these two old dudes are alone in the common room playing checkers, and a pair of silver-haired dollies are loitering in the doorway, bitching about how bored they are. All of a sudden, one of them starts getting undressed, saying, ‘You know what? I’m gonna streak those two old codgers, see if I can’t get a rise out of ’em.’ So she does. Toddles right past them, naked as a jaybird. Well the one old lad looks up from the game and says, ‘Did you see that?’ and the other guy says, ‘Yeah. What the hell was she wearing?’ And the first guy says, ‘I dunno, but it sure needed ironing.’”
That got the place laughing again.
But Ben had lost interest, his eyes scanning the room now, hoping for another glimpse of Roxanne.
* * *
When she got home that night at twelve-thirty, Roxanne was surprised to find her grandmother still awake, reading a novel in Gramps’s easy chair with her feet up on the ottoman. She looked up as Roxanne came in, saying, “Hi, sweetie. Long day?”
Setting her backpack by the stairs, Roxanne said, “Yeah, Gram, and I’m pooped. It was a good day, though. The formal part in the morning was a bit stiff, but the talent show was a hoot. I’m glad I took the double shift.”
Gram said, “You must be so hungry,” and started to get up.
Roxanne said, “No, I’m fine,” and Gram eased herself back in the chair. “I stuffed myself at the buffet.” She sat on the edge of the ottoman now, taking her grandmother’s hand. She said, “I stopped in to see Gramps today,” and Gram’s hand tightened around hers. “To say goodbye.”
“Oh, honey. So you’ve decided?”
Tears flooded Roxanne’s eyes and she could only nod. Gram drew her close, cradling her head as she had so often in the past, soothing a skinned knee or a broken heart. She said, “It’s the right thing to do, my darling. He was such a good man, I can’t bear to think of him suffering.”
She stroked Roxanne’s hair for a while, humming some nameless tune, and Roxanne felt the guilt melting away. It was the right thing to do, and she was glad she’d found someone to help her make the decision.
Sitting up now, she snatched a tissue from the dispenser on the lamp table and said, “I met a neat old guy today. A retired doctor who used to work at the Foundation.”
“Mm-hmm?”
“I heard a speech he gave at the ceremony, and I talked to him about it later. He helped me decide.”
“Then I’m very grateful to him.”
“Me, too,” Roxanne said, yawning now. She patted her grandmother’s knee and stood. “I’m gonna say goodnight now, Gram. We’ve got that meeting in the morning and—”
Gram caught her hand as she started away. “Listen, sweetheart. You don’t have to go to the meeting. I can handle it on my own. You don’t even have to sign the consent. My signature’s all they need.”
“No. I want to. We’re in this together, okay?”
“Okay, hon.” She squeezed Roxanne’s hand. “You try and get some sleep now.”
Roxanne said she would, but she barely slept a wink.