Newport Cove Listserv Digest
*Re: Dog Poop
Can we “bag” this discussion now? (Last one, I promise.) —Frank Fitzgibbons, Forsythia Lane
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Susan swept through the doors of Sunrise Community Assisted Living Center, carrying a copy of a new large-print novel and a small canvas bag.
She took the elevator, which was wide enough to accommodate three side-by-side wheelchairs, to the second floor. There were probably stairs somewhere around here, but she’d never been able to find them. She made her way down the long hall to Mr. Brannon’s room. He shared a suite with another man, also a widower, named Garth.
Susan had tried to tease Mr. Brannon (he’d insisted she call him Charles, but she privately always thought of him as Mr. Brannon) when he’d moved in, saying that he and Garth would be the Casanovas of the second floor. “You’ll be fending off the ladies,” she’d said. “Look out!”
Mr. Brannon had smiled, but the warmth hadn’t reached his eyes, and Susan had felt guilty for making the joke. She wondered if he’d wanted the suite, rather than the private room he could afford, because having another person close by was a comfort. On lonely days he could pretend the shuffle of slippers across the floor simply meant his beloved wife was in the next room.
Susan knocked on the open door to the shared living room. Garth was busy tinkering with something on a table—he’d been an engineer long ago—and it took another two sharp knocks for him to hear.
“Hello, Susan!” he bellowed (Garth was a bit deaf). “Charles, your granddaughter’s here!”
Garth persisted in thinking she and Mr. Brannon were genetically related, despite copious visible evidence to the contrary (Mr. Brannon was as white as the inside of a biscuit, for starters). But Susan didn’t mind. Her own parents lived in Germany now, where her father had been born, and her grandparents were deceased. It was nice to have a surrogate.
Mr. Brannon lifted his head from the book he was reading in the easy chair by the window. He was wearing slacks, a crisp white button-down shirt, and dress shoes. He always dressed well. Soft white tufts of hair floated above his ears like clouds.
A smile broke across his face, transforming it.
“Hi, Charles,” she said.
“Miss Susan.” He struggled to get up while she silently waited. She’d learned long ago that it was an affront to his dignity to suggest that he stay seated when a woman entered the room. When he had straightened up as much as his curved back would allow, she crossed over to him and kissed him on the cheek, breathing in a whiff of Old Spice.
“I brought you treats,” she said. She reached into her sack for a tin of cookies and set the novel atop a stack on the table next to his chair.
“You spoil me,” he said.
“My granddaughter doesn’t bring me treats,” Garth said mournfully.
“It would be my pleasure to share,” Mr. Brannon said.
Garth made a swift emotional recovery, taking a surprisingly large handful of cookies for a man who had arthritis. Susan made a mental note: Next time, bring two tins.
“Shall we?” Mr. Brannon said, offering Susan his arm. She walked with him to the elevator, then through the doors of Sunrise Assisted Living. She’d parked right in front of the entrance so he wouldn’t have to go far to reach her car, and she helped him into the front seat of her Mercedes.
“It’s so pretty out,” she said as she settled into the driver’s seat. “I thought I could get us some tea and we could go for a drive.” Those lines were part of their charade. Earlier on during her weekly visits, she’d taken Mr. Brannon places—to restaurants, movies, and bookstores. Then one day she’d driven past Newport Cove high school and she’d seen something transform his face, a naked yearning. She’d slowed for a stop sign, and he’d stretched out his hand against the glass pane of his window.
“Did you go to school there?” she’d asked, but he hadn’t answered.
“Would you mind . . . Could you . . . ,” he’d begun, the words seeming to take a great effort. She’d pulled over and turned in to the entrance to the school.
“Thank you,” he’d said as she’d driven slowly down the winding driveway, past the athletic fields and bleachers. They’d sat in the parking lot while she’d wondered about the school’s pull on Mr. Brannon. Maybe he’d met his wife here. Maybe he’d been a star football player, or a shy band member, while she’d been in Home Ec class. Something had told her not to ask, though.
“We can go now, dear,” he’d said after a few minutes, and as she’d driven away, he’d released a soft sigh.
Later, Susan discovered other places that exerted a similar gravitational effect on Mr. Brannon: a casual pizza restaurant, a nondescript redbrick house about a mile away from Sunrise Assisted Living, and the local hospital. She and Mr. Brannon talked before and after their drives, but not while he sat vigil outside his four spots. Those moments felt sacred.
Now Susan steered into the order lane for a drive-through Starbucks and bought two Chai Tea Lattes, then she set off, following the trail of Mr. Brannon’s emotional landmarks.
Maybe, she reflected as she took a sip of hot, sweet tea, she never questioned him because she had secret pilgrimages of her own. What would the people who called in to her radio show, seeking her sage, calm advice, think if they could see Susan stripped of her pride and restraint? Would they still respect her if they glimpsed her at her lowest moments? At least once a week, Susan lurked outside the house where Randall now lived with Daphne and his French bulldog puppy. Her vigils usually occurred on the nights Cole was with Randall, when Susan was alone and memories pressed in on her until she clutched her head, feeling nauseous from the swirl of her thoughts, from the recognition of all she had lost.
Susan had assumed she’d been drawn to Mr. Brannon because he had no family left. Because he needed her. But maybe that wasn’t it.
Maybe the reason was because he seemed broken inside, too.