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Violet worried more about Wilbur with each passing week. It had been four years since his mental issues had tipped too far, since she insisted they consult their long-time doctor. The diagnosis was dementia, in all probability Alzheimer’s. Violet was thankful the progression had been moderate, in some respects even slow. She was grateful that Wilbur had not grown violent and still remembered people. Even his short-term memory remained decent, usually sparing Violet from repeatedly answering the same question. Occasionally Wilbur was crabby, but it didn’t last, and he still had a smile ready when she entered a room, still was pleased when Violet teased him.
Certainly, there was forgetfulness and a tendency to live in the past. A big part of Wilbur’s slippage involved rewriting history, like turning his middle-level bookkeeping job into being chief financial officer for a Fortune 500 company. A TV report on a firm struggling against bankruptcy could prompt Wilbur to allow that he told the company’s president only last week the steps needed to avert financial disaster.
Driving was a predictably tough problem, but Violet’s insistence that he not go alone finally won out. Wilbur could still drive safely, but it was apt to be aimlessly. He got lost driving home on roads he had navigated for decades, and failed to find restaurants they had patronized for years. Ready solutions helped – like having Violet ride along to give directions – and she was pleased that he welcomed her company. She dreaded the day when, finally, she would have to take his keys. Having children would have given her allies, but she and Wilbur had belatedly acknowledged that could not happen. Violet rued their decision not to adopt.
Most recently he had experienced Sundowner’s Syndrome, in Wilbur’s case a level of confusion that could turn severe as afternoon wore into evening. Options for medication were limited and sometimes came with side effects worse than the hour or two it might take to work through the confusion.
“I’ve got to get home now. Violet will be worried if I’m not home soon.”
“Wilbur, you are in your home, and I am Violet.”
“No, I’ve got to get home. I know Violet will be worried if I’m not home soon.”
“Look at me, Wilbur. You are at home. I am Violet.”
“No, you are not my wife. I shouldn’t even be with you.”
Over and over again. And again until Violet breathed with relief when, after a long silence, Wilbur would just change the subject. Relieved, even if the change was to that infernal, “How’s your vacuuming going?”
“It’s goin’ fine, Wilbur. How’s your’s?”
“Well, I do the best I can with this decrepit monster. I may have to break down and buy a new one.”
Sometimes, in his mind, doing his best was incredibly good. As a young man Wilbur had a nice voice and his high school vocal teacher helped him develop as a tenor. He was good enough to be the vocalist in a swing band and, after it fell apart, he continued singing in his church choir and high school musicals. It was an era when small radio stations carried performers live, and sometimes he was invited to do a segment. As he grew older, he sang at weddings and funerals and opened ball games with the “Star Spangled Banner.” For a time he sang in a barbershop quartet, but harmony was not his forte. What he enjoyed most was the applause that came from being on stage, and Wilbur competed fiercely for parts at the local playhouse. He landed parts, but never the lead. Regardless of the venue, if he was singing, he was happy.
As Wilbur’s dementia worsened, he seriously amplified his past musical glories. His church choir gained regional and then national renown. As lead first tenor he attracted the attention of choirs that toured internationally. He was asked to join them as a soloist. Pavarotti somehow noticed him and more than once they sang duets at benefits for what Wilbur called “really good causes.” Musical talent plus involvement in Democratic politics – he had served as county Democratic treasurer, after all – combined to put him on President Obama’s radar. Wilbur reveled in having sung at the president’s second inauguration.
“You know what he told me, don’t you, Mother?”
“No, Wilbur,” she said yet again.
“He said, ‘When I watch the video of the swearing in, your soothing voice will calm me as I face the turmoil of my second term’.”
“That’s actually a wonderful contribution to the nation, Wilbur. I’m proud of you.”
When Wilbur’s stories – the tours and the inauguration and his business acumen – first began, Violet had objected.
“That just never happened,” she chastised him. “Quit makin’ things up.”
Wilbur’s jaw clamped up as he sulked, but his fantasies persisted, regardless of Violet’s objections. Soon his response was to defend himself, to lash back.
“What do you know about it?” he demanded. “You aren’t me, Mother.” Which sounded like a half word.
Violet gradually understood there was nothing to be gained by trying to impose reality. Wilbur’s reality was in his mind, not in facts or what others thought to be true. Violet, who had played navigator so they could drive to the polls to cast their losing votes for president in the last election, never tired of asking herself, “I wonder if he’s related back there somewhere to Jonathan Tower?”
Wilbur’s recollections grew to grandiose proportions. “You know, Obama’s inauguration was the only one I enjoyed,” Wilbur said one night. “The rest were all Republicans. Felt I had a duty.
“I have sung at four, as you know, startin’ with Nixon in 1973. With all that controversy buzzin’ around him I almost said no when Pat called. But she was such a nice woman ...I just couldn’t. No wonder she drank, though. Nancy called afterwards and told me how she and her ‘Ronnie’ had loved listenin’ to me and Pav in Vienna. I feel so lucky they happened to be going through when we were there.”
“And it was a wonderful trip, Wilbur, even if the inauguration wasn’t in Vienna that year.”
“Sometimes you confuse me, Mother ...Now, I didn’t much care for Ford after he pardoned Nixon and I didn’t much care for the peanut farmer though I voted for him, so not singin’ for those guys was okay with me. I understand Carter is buildin’ houses now. Actually buildin’ them. I saw him on the TV with a hammer, his wife, too. Shame how far some of those big guys can fall. I was disappointed that I didn’t sing for Clinton. You remember how I got an answering machine so to not miss his call? Waste of money. He was so smart. You’d of thought he would have paid the cleanin’ bill for that girl’s dress and been done with it.
“And then there was Bush Two when he got re-elected. We still had that answerin’ machine when one of his flunkies called and I almost didn’t call back. I was so mad about Iraq. All those young men ...And you know I figured up the cost of Iraq to you and me personally and it was more than enough to pay for the damn answerin’ machine.”
“If you did the figurin’ I don’t doubt you were right.” Being somewhat patronizing had become one of Violet’s standard responses.
“Right, Mother. But then the great man called and explained that he wanted Pav for the inauguration but Pav said only if I sang with him. So you remember Mother? We were a duet.”
“I remember, Wilbur. What about Bush One?”
“I can’t recall the deal there. Maybe in my mind one Bush was enough.”
Still, things were tolerable. Violet enjoyed his company most in the morning. There was less confusion then and every so often he would roll over against her and sometimes they would warm up. Reaching climax was becoming rare for both of them, but arousal still brought back sharp memories of the intensity they had shared for decades.
Most days Wilbur took an interest in his breakfast options before starting to fiddle with the TV remote in search of news. Deciding what to eat somehow focused his mind, and Violet found it a good time to try to talk about whatever was on her mind. Like the renters who had just moved in.
“They’re very quiet, but seem like nice young men,” was Violet’s assessment.
Wilbur said he didn’t understand being able to just take off for a month or more to fish or hike or whatever they were doing with their days. Accountants, he emphasized, got a job and stuck with it, and if they lost it, they tried to get another lined up quick.
“Near as I can tell they do even less at night. Usually, I can see the front of their car just sittin’ there. You’d think they’d be out at bars or somethin’.”
“You don’t ‘spose they’re in some kinda trouble. Or maybe they’re homosexuals and don’t feel comfortable going out and ‘bout in a rural area like this.”
“Nope, homos aren’t much liked around here. As long as they mind their own business and pay their rent, I don’t much care who they are, Mother.”