UNSTEADY
DREADFUL - EVENT #16
It’s been said that death and taxes are the only absolutes in this life, but Gene Edison has argued that there is something far more expansive that overshadows everything.
Numbers.
Precisely, the power and prominence of numbers.
Try going half a day without needing to consult a recipe for the number of required limes or making it through an entire workday without having some higher-up begging for costs about blah blah product. Commerce exists because numbers do. Without a coherent system, how could anyone make a purchase of any relevance? Numbers are the baseline on which society stands. It’s why mortgages exist. It’s one of the first things a toddler is taught. It is why a native calculator app comes with each smartphone.
As Gene would delve into his sermon regarding this topic, the person on the receiving end would usually nod and push out a forced, skin-stiffening smile. Their thoughts were unknown to him, but the look on their face spoke every language.
For fifty-five years, Gene Edison worked as a bank teller, dealing almost exclusively in numbers. For him, numbers manifested into money and a litany of interactions with it. He held money. He transferred money. He stuffed money into envelopes and pushed them across the desk to the recipient. Most of all, he counted money. Ones, twos, fives, tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds. On rare occasions, he had individuals pass along denominations no longer in print but still accepted, like five hundred or a thousand. He fondled countless pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and half dollars in his hands, letting the coolness melt away to match his constant clamminess. He licked his fingers thousands upon thousands of times to ensure that each bill was accounted for. He slammed the money against the counter with gusto until it was aligned, saying, “That’s how it’s done” each time. He cashed checks. He managed debit cards. He consulted money orders. He prevented counterfeit bills from continuing in circulation. He observed people cry when they found out their account balance. He had people threaten his existence as if he were a thief absconding with their money.
He was a faithful and good-natured worker who showed up to each shift with a winning attitude, a phrase called out in his yearly review several times after the small branch was gobbled up by bigger competition. The problem, Gene discovered, as retirement eventually called out to him, was that his complacency led to salary stagnation. He declined a promotion to assistant manager dozens of times, citing his love of the current routine. He watched the branch turn over endless times, with each unfamiliar face looking more weary and haggard than the one before it. Gene tried to keep spirits alive with congenial conversation and the semi-monthly sweets, but he finally discovered that thrusting happiness onto others meant sacrificing his own. So he tightened up. The last decade of his career became a shell of what once was. Fewer customers came into the store, opting to serve themselves online. The ones who came in were nose-deep into their phones, preoccupied with all manner of business besides what sat in front of them. Gene became a relic, a tombstone covered in moss, where even the most loyal customers ended up forgetting his name.
On the day Gene retired, they had a party for him. The celebration component was lost in a memo, as the ordeal was no grander than a goodbye-and-get-out type of event. Gene was old-school. Gene was slow and pecked at the computer keys as fog crept into his mind. Gene was the embodiment of what was likely sitting at the top of the corporation, but somehow there was no more room for him at the bottom.
Gene spent the first day of retirement getting ready for work, putting on a familiar tie and ironing the slacks that still fit from a decade ago. He tucked in his shirt, tightened his belt, and threaded it through the worn loop. He drove to the branch right on time and idled in the parking lot, his car spewing exhaust out toward any nearby foot traffic. He sat with his favorite morning talk show spewing its own exhaust as he lost himself to contemplation. Soon after, a knock against the window shook him loose. Gene fumbled with the buttons until he found the correct one. The window rolled down in no hurry.
“Gene? What are you doing here?” the former coworker asked, bundling himself against the cold.
Gene turned to him and let him see the tears that had accumulated. “What do I do now?”
“Anything you want. You’re free.”
For the next ten years, Gene thought about that simple exchange. He let it consume him, honestly. In the best way possible. Every decision he made hinged on the fact that he could do whatever he wanted. He was free from the burden of work. He could pursue new hobbies, travel to exotic locations. He could decipher the meaning of life and discover what was so special about the internet.
He spent his time well but not encompassed by the grandiose ideas that seemed so tantalizing during that drive back home on his first day of retirement. Quickly, Gene realized there’s a dreadfully funny thing about the idea of retirement: your age defines the time you have left. Very few find fortune and retire with an abundance of life yet. Very few have enough funds stockpiled to travel to exotic locations and decipher the meaning of it all. Those who are the lucky ones only want more. They write books about their success and everlasting happiness. They have seminars and charge for programs so you too can become one of the fortunate, only for a flat fee of several hundred dollars.
Gene retired at seventy-three, far removed from that revered list of fortuitous folks. Within weeks, the years of neglect saddled up beside him and brought attention to all the ailments he previously paid little mind to. Aches morphed into lingering discomfort. Lingering discomfort transformed into unavoidable pain. Unavoidable pain cascaded into doctor’s appointments. So many doctor’s appointments. His travels across the city resembled a game of Pong, dashing from one corner to the other. He saw cardiologists, orthodontists, orthopedists, pediatrists. He frequented his family doctor so often that you could have convinced him how they recognized his name and let the phone ring for just a bit longer.
Gene wasn’t a hypochondriac concerned with every crack and throb. It’s just that he finally had the time to pay more attention. Like an iceberg sliding into the ocean, Gene’s health had taken a steep downward tumble, crashing, sinking, and becoming entirely unrecoverable. After the first few years of retirement, Gene could no longer sustain living on his own. The house he called home for forty years became much too large, echoed and lengthened by being the sole occupant. The chores became burdens as weeds cropped up in the yard and dust collected on objects just out of reach. The realization of his own decline came over a long period, one that he struggled to make amends with.
It’s a familiar story. Too common, perhaps even boring.
Gene, that poor bastard. Punished for living too long.
During the worst days, he thought about how his younger self assumed his last handful of years would be different. They’d be surrounded by family. They’d be etched with fresh memories and digging around to dredge up Nostalgia, the drug of choice by all. What Gene never accounted for was how life dips and swerves around the best intentions. Gene was married for fifty years to a lovely woman named Mary. Mary tolerated Gene’s lack of desire to move upward at the bank. She supported all his decisions, and together they shared more love than either of them felt entitled to. Early in their relationship, she began calling him Benny, short for benign. For some, the nickname could be seen as an insult, but for Gene, he saw the endearment. Mary appreciated Gene’s sensitive nature and the work he put in at home. He never raised his voice (or fists) at her. He always bought her flowers on Valentine’s Day and surprised her with random cards that gushed with proclamations of love. Gene was the opposite of what Mary thought she deserved. In her experience, men were brutes, fueled by anger and disdain toward all the world’s inconveniences. She assumed her life wouldn’t amount to anything more than being a homemaker, cleaning and cooking until her hands bent to the rhythm of arthritis. Along came Benny, dismantling beliefs and limitations. Along came Benny, supporting Mary’s pursuit of her own career at a time when it would have been easier to remain at home and look after the kids.
Along came Mary, giving Gene everything he needed.
During the quietest moments, Gene considered the irony of the nickname Mary gave him. While he could be considered benign, the tumors that populated and spread through Mary’s body were anything but. They decimated her body and broke her spirit. Six months after the diagnosis, she took her final breath and was buried a week later in a plot of land she and Gene had picked out twenty years prior. That happened when Gene was sixty-eight and fueled his decision to work another five years. He filled the void with the beast he knew.
At seventy-seven, Gene put the house up for sale. Nobody cared about the roof that hadn’t been replaced timely. Nobody cared about the dated kitchen or the out-of-style wallpaper seen in all the rooms. Nobody balked at the garage door that needed to be lifted manually. It could all be changed, they said as they stalked through his residence. The prospective buyers just wanted some place to be.
Gene sold the house in less than a week and made far more than what the property was worth. The real estate agent clapped him on the back and said things like, “You picked a great time to sell” and “They don’t call me Howie the House for nothing.”
He watched the movers puff out their chests and lift the heaviest pieces of furniture with straight legs and bent backs. “You’re going to feel that in another thirty years,” Gene remarked, leaning against his cane. The cane had become an extension of his body, tethered and gripped at all times. The movers laughed, unconcerned by the warnings of Father Time. Within three hours, the house was packed and divided between items being sold/donated versus what would continue on with him. Gene tried to avoid the cliché tears that so often accompanied individuals as they left behind something meaningful. He tried not to consider what Mary would think. He tried not to worry about what his kids would say about abandoning their childhood home. Gene hadn’t consulted them in his decision, but he rationalized to himself that everything transpired the way it was meant to.
With shaky hands and dimming eyesight, Gene drove across town to his new home. The independent living facility that boasted itself as the best in the metroplex. The fabricated reviews on their website spoke of the top-notch amenities, the facilitative staff, a rotation of engaging activities, and high-end meals that catered to everyone. Five stars, five stars, five stars. It’s the only number that the community publicized in its reviews.
For only fifty-five hundred dollars a month, Gene could cast aside worry about cleaning and cooking; instead, he could spend his time socializing and sunbathing. Instead of a four-bedroom house, he’d have the luxury of living in a one-bedroom apartment, complete with Formica countertops, no oven, a balcony that overlooked the steady pulse of traffic on Route 75, and freshly shampooed carpet. For only fifty-five hundred dollars a month, Gene had access to four different elevators to avoid the strain of taking the steps up to his third-floor apartment. For only fifty-five hundred dollars a month, Gene had access to a movie theater and a chapel and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. For only fifty-five hundred dollars a month, Gene could spend his remaining days surrounded by the odor of neglect and death.
For only fifty-five hundred dollars a month, he could die in comfort, knowing that when he did, his body would be found in less than twelve hours.
What more could he ask for?
Gene Edison decided not to ask for anything more and spent the next six and a half years enjoying what he could within that community. He did socialize. He did take extra helpings of dessert. He did participate in seasonal events such as a fictitious boat tour throughout Europe and football gambling and a community-wide Spades tournament. He absorbed the yearly increases in rent with no complaints, opting to see it as a useful way to spend what remained of his diminishing empire.
Oh, some days he forgot about his dead wife as he admired the myriad of widows who shuffled through the halls, caked in makeup and saggy clothes. Some days he forgot that he had grown children who lived in the metroplex and couldn’t be bothered to visit their aging father. Some days he even forgot that he had spent a majority of his working career as a bank teller, greasing his fingertips with spit and dousing customers in banal pleasantries.
What he had then was life, and it was beautiful.
One day, as Gene strode into the dining area, leaning heavily into the walker that propelled him forward, the manager came over and handed him an envelope.
“What is this?” Gene asked, staring at his name in cursive on the front.
“A notice.”
At the dining table, Gene tore into the envelope and skimmed the contents. He moved the paper back and forth in front of his eyes until he found the optimal distance. Rent is going up again, it said. He was used to this circus event. The letter no longer justified the reason(s) for the increase. Screw you, that’s why, he thought to himself. He read the number in bold three times, allowing the individual numbers to sink in. Seven two five nine. No cents, of course. There wasn’t a need to deal in such trivialities.
Seven two five nine.
Seven two five nine.
Gene recalled when the number used to read five five zero zero.
In that moment, Gene wished he would just hurry up and die. What was the point any longer? He babbled to himself like a baby for hours at a time. He spent far too much time locked away in his apartment with the television cranked up loud enough to be heard in the hallway. He’d moved from a cane to a walker, so insecure about his movements that he was sure he’d fall one time and never get up. Every doctor’s appointment was just another reminder that they couldn’t do anything for him. He was too old for surgery. He was too drugged up to change his cocktail.
“Age,” each doctor said. “Nothing we can do for you,” they’d say in unison as if they were a chorus of screeching grackles.
Gene wanted to thrust his finger up their noses until he could scratch their brains and pluck away at the creases. He wanted to bang their kneecaps with a stethoscope until they realized that age is not a diagnosis. Age is a disease. A curse. A plague. A cantankerous witch. Age is a prognosis. No one recovered from age. Nobody ever woke up in their eighties and said they felt great. Nobody ever wished to be older than they already were, outside of the naïve and foolish.
Gene needed to be rid of all the unavoidable pain.
He stared at the number on the paper again until he laughed and realized he could no longer fake it. He could no longer afford to fake it. While others within the community had golden parachutes, he had a paper thin one, patched together with flimsy, dirty dollar bills. He had more than some others, sure, but after living for ten years post-retirement, Gene Edison didn’t have enough left to live without fear.
Four months later, he moved out of the community, waving goodbye to friends, acquaintances, and fuzzy faces, knowing that as soon as he made it past the front gates no one would ever speak of or remember who Gene Edison was. In his time at the community, he’d seen residents die at dinner, die playing bingo, die while on a gurney being wheeled out to a local hospital. He should have considered himself lucky. Most didn’t leave the community of their own free will.
The leasing agent at The Amorphophallus showed him an available one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor. She was kind and walked at a slow enough pace, like an owner strolling around the neighborhood with their aging dog. In the apartment, she pointed out the accessibility features, like the lower countertops in the bathroom and the walk-in bathtub. Gene had no choice but to sign the lease. When he did, he observed the highlighted numbers, ordered in a pleasing way compared to the other community.
One three eight eight.
Of course, he’d need to provide his own meals and clean and pretend to socialize, but Gene wasn’t concerned. The total amount would accumulate to far less. The total amount would ensure that life would continue on for Gene, regardless of how many years remained for him.
Now, nearly two years on, Gene continues to call The Amorphophallus home. While home is perhaps too grandiose a term, no one has challenged him, so it continues to serve as canon in his mind.
Gene continues with the doctor’s appointments, shuffling from apartment to parking garage to waiting room to exam room to listening to the doctor spout their hefty words in a monotone voice. Gene understands he is an obligation to them, a checkmark on a to-do list. He pays it no mind. Gene then returns to the car after struggling to shove his walker into the trunk. He takes cautious steps, slapping his palm against the car’s exterior as guidance to his destination. Then, Gene drives, hunched over the wheel and electing to stick with back roads through less populated areas (if such a thing is possible in a major city) to avoid unnecessary casualties. Then, Gene returns safely to The Amorphophallus, pressing the button on his keyring vigorously until the parking garage gate obeys. Then, Gene grunts in effort as he dislodges himself from the driver’s seat and plucks the walker from the trunk. Finally, Gene rolls into his apartment, places the walker within reach, and collapses onto the couch, exhausted and overwhelmed at the prospect of still being alive.
This is his life. These are his end days. He tries not to think of what he once was, but he inevitably does.
The process repeats when he needs to get groceries or refill a prescription or check the mail on the other side of the building. He has met none of his neighbors besides the polite nod at a stray passerby. If anyone was shocked to see his presence in the complex, they didn’t show it. If they were to ask, he had an answer lined up. “America, huh? What a place,” he’d say, releasing a hearty chuckle at the absurdity of his situation.
Tonight, Gene is on his laptop, squinting at the tiny words displayed on the screen. They are words he has been writing for weeks now. He forgets how he can zoom in on the words to make them larger and eliminate some of the eyestrain, but Gene pioneers onward. He found a website that gives him prompts and questions to answer about his life. So far, he has written over fifty thousand words, finding time and reason to shed a light on practically anything—his wife, his children, his career, his childhood, his parents, his misdeeds, his triumphs, his sorrows. On and on the prompts go. They probe into every aspect as if the government runs the website and is trying to ensnare him into culpability for a past crime.
Writing has been cathartic for him. As it is for anyone. Isn’t that why criminals do it when they are locked in a cell for years and years? Isn’t that why celebrities hire ghostwriters to plot out their dull life stories and then package them up as unique and worthy of a read? Writing unburdens and unwinds. Gene allows the words to tumble and fumble into one another, not hellbent on coherency or sense. He doesn’t expect this to be viewed by anyone. It’s his pastime becoming his present, his present reaching out into the future. He envisions a time when his heart stops midway through a sentence. His imaginative audience will never know all the answers. That brings him joy.
Although it is a smidge past five in the afternoon, Gene has already eaten dinner, opting to boil a pot of water on the stove and toss in a bag of ramen. It’s cheap and plenty of food. He doesn’t eat much these days. He considers how he had gorged himself on multiple dinner rolls or slices of cake at the previous community. Someone could easily convince Gene that he hadn’t lived there, that the memories were supplanted by a malignant force. There is a theme at work here, and it is as straightforward as apple pie: Gene doesn’t remember much anymore. Nearby, on the kitchen counter, is an unopened package with a battery replacement inside. He has made eye contact with the package a hundred times, either ignoring it or murmuring to himself that he will take care of it later.
In general, the tasks of the apartment have fallen by the wayside. A slimy substance licks up the side of the toilet bowl. The kitchen sink drain is littered with stale ramen noodles too big to slip into the drain without some prodding. The bedsheets and mattress are stained with the residue of Gene’s unfortunate accidents. Stale food sits in the fridge. Laundry grows musty in the washer. He has gotten used to the odors that permeate throughout the apartment, but he knows a stranger might crinkle their nose and beg for fresh air. He would tell them how the hand crank for the window has been broken for months. It’s on his list of things to get done.
Sometimes, Gene forgets how he needs to charge the laptop. He will stare at the blank screen and let out a long sigh. “Broken again, huh?” he says. “Dang thing,” he chastises. He will place the laptop in the garbage until he walks by the cord jutting from the wall enough times to remember its purpose. “Ahhh. Right, right, right,” he says, trundling over to the garbage and digging through the festering pile of filth until he grabs hold of the object. Clarity is a flower that sprouts on its own schedule.
After Gene finishes his typing for the night, he closes the laptop and remembers to plug it into the charger. He nods to himself in satisfaction and recognition. “Attaboy, Benny,” he says. He passes by the unopened package and heads into the bathroom. He leaves the walker at the door. The room is too tight to navigate with the walker, so he treads carefully, mindful of each step. He wiggles out of his clothes and pulls at the door to the bathtub. The door sticks and resists before swinging open. With shaking hands, Gene latches onto the sides of the tub and lowers himself into the seat. He shifts and realigns until he finds slight comfort. It’s all he ever gets when taking a bath. He leans forward and fiddles with the nozzles until water pools around his feet. He doesn’t have the strength to hold his feet up high enough to avoid the cold rush. He has learned to embrace the pins and needles that soak into his toes.
The water flows with a ferocity that he still isn’t used to. It reminds him of the time they took a family trip to Niagara Falls and saw the Class 6 rapids. The kids cared little about how the water swelled and swallowed itself, but Gene recalls being enraptured by the potency of nature, even more than seeing the waterfalls themselves. The memory lacks any murkiness. The memory is one of dozens that he can summon on command. Gene’s issue is navigating the present and loathing his future.
As the water rises, Gene returns to an old favorite. He counts. He counts the number of tiles on the wall ahead of him. He counts the swirls of color within each tile. He counts the grout lines that separate the tiles. He tilts his head upward and counts the black dots on the ceiling. Numbers are all he has left. The peacefulness of their constant availability. Their resourcefulness in any situation. Decades into his life and Gene is still awed by how a simple system of numbers has a stranglehold over all of society. They are superior to all else. No one could or should argue otherwise.
Gene turns off the nozzles after the water reaches his shins. He grabs the palm-sized cloth and dips it into the warm water. He runs it over his body, doing what he can to stretch and pull himself to the furthest corners. Gene allows himself to daydream about how he once looked and how for many, many years of his life he had the energy to clean himself standing up. He used to play volleyball in the summer heat. He used to drive to the Gulf and sunbathe on the crusty beaches, unbothered by the potential sunburn and future pain. He mowed the lawn and trimmed the shrubs without griping about his back or the knee that dared to always hyperextend. Mary made frequent comments about how she wished he walked around the house shirtless so she could admire him. Gene would blush at this request, stammering and grasping for any reason to decline.
Everything good in his life happened long ago. Now, he is destined to counting and reminiscing back to times when his body wasn’t a mass of saggy skin. He shakes his head and clears away the damaging thoughts. He can’t change how he looks anymore. He tells himself that he should be happy with the time he had as a younger man, not be envious that he no longer is.
Eventually, Gene grows tired of the bath and unplugs the drain, flipping the switch with his toe. The water swirls and tornadoes down the drain until it gurgles, spits, and then lapses into silence. After drying himself off, Gene tosses the towel aside and attempts to open the bathtub door. It stands firm. Gene pushes his hand harder against it. No luck. Not to worry, though. This has happened before. A bit of elbow grease is all he needs. With both hands pressed against the door, Gene strains his biceps and tries to push the door open with brute force. The door continues to showcase its defensive capabilities. Gene sighs once. He then sighs again, more sustained and frustrated. He wants to go to the couch and watch Jeopardy, not wrestle with an inanimate object. He tries a third time, pressing both hands and a foot against the stubborn door.
“It’s stuck,” he says, confirming his concerns. He speaks the words aloud in order to minimize the fear of what must come next. He intends to take some initiative. Perhaps if he were at the previous community, he could shout for help or use the Life Alert. People did it all the time. People always needed help there, but Gene can’t bring himself to press the button around his neck now. The embarrassment. The shame. Like the fire department being called out to rescue a cat from a tree. He didn’t want anyone to see him compromised. He didn’t want anyone to look at him and feel sorry. No, he can resolve this on his own.
The easy part comes first. Gene stands up, as he has done a thousand times before. While he forgets many things, taking a bath each night is a staple within his ironed-out routine. He wavers, using his toes to balance himself. For extra security, he juts out a hand and suctions it to the wall. Just like that, the first step is done. Gene knocks at the resistant door one last time to confirm it is still frozen.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Still stuck,” he says. “It ain’t gonna change.”
Gene bends over enough to press one palm against the tub’s edge while releasing his other hand from the wall. His fingers extend down and grip as tightly as they can onto the fiberglass.
“Careful now, ya hear?” he says.
Gene lifts his right leg cautiously. For the first few seconds it only hovers two inches off the ground. He lets out the tiniest grunt and propels the leg higher. Unlike the door, it obeys. Gene lifts until his leg is higher than the tub’s edge. In one fluid motion, he drops his leg toward the ground outside the tub and collapses his butt against the fiberglass, thankful that his dangly bits didn’t get caught underneath. He teeters between confinement and freedom, cleanliness and dirtiness.
Leveraging his leg outside the tub, Gene stands back up and tries his best to balance himself. He counts from one to whatever as his foot gains traction on the floor. His ankle wiggles and adjusts, making a series of quick countermoves to compensate for this heavy request. Seven, eight, nine. The damp hairs on his free leg stick out. His skin prickles. He shivers. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. He is steady now. Adjustments complete. He is capable. Always will be. He is confident that he will get the Final Jeopardy question correct tonight.
Gene makes it to twenty-seven before he swings his left leg out of the tub. His right leg takes an involuntary half-step forward, sliding against a dastardly puddle of water that dribbled onto the floor. It’s just enough for the calculations to crumble. Gene’s toes scrape against the fiberglass, making a satisfying squeakkk noise that would have been appealing in most other scenarios. He tumbles forward like a fierce redwood falling in a forest. He moves far too slowly to stop the impact from being as traumatic and damaging as possible. Gene smacks onto the tile. Many bones cry out in worry, while many others stay mum. Gene’s head bounces once off the floor before settling. His vision pulsates, blinking from blackness and back to the intense glow of the bathroom.
Gene grunts, a sound much smaller and timid than the fall that just occurred. His hands, down at his sides, move toward his head. He groans and babbles. He has envisioned this moment a thousand times in a million different variations. This is what was supposed to happen. This is finality at its finest.
His palm wraps around the Life Alert fob dangling from his neck. He presses the button. At least he can try to get help. He’s no longer concerned about optics or opinions. He’d like to be picked up off the floor, thank you very much.
It’s supposed to beep when he clicks the button.
It doesn’t.
He presses it again.
Nothing happens.
His eyes flutter and try to focus. He doesn’t understand. He can’t make sense of it. Even now, Gene doesn’t remember the package sitting on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t remember the explicit instructions sent through the mail weeks ahead of time stating that it has been ten years since his purchase and while the battery may last longer than that, it is strongly advised to change the battery upon receiving the package.
After a minute of silence, Gene presses the button again to the beat of his favorite song from the seventies, wondering if Life Alert only responds to songs by Supertramp.
No beep.
Gene relieves all tension throughout his body. He’s unsure of what needs repair. The pain he has feels as if it has always been there, not a fresh addition. He remains still, hoping to be enveloped in quicksand and fall as deep into the earth as he can. Perhaps he would suffocate or lose all sensation, but at least he would no longer be at The Amorphophallus, a soul-eating complex where the last bits of his life have been snuffed out by Fate.
Gene restarts his counting. This time, he moves through multiples of five, sometimes forgetting how the pattern should go.
Somewhere north of six hundred and sixty, his eyes grow heavy. A headache has settled at the point of impact and radiates out. He is tired. Exhausted. He wants to rest. He wants to be done. He wants a thousand things he can no longer have, whether they have been lost or unobtainable from the start.
This has all been enjoyable, but every party must end, he tells himself.
“Dad?”
Gene tilts an ear like a dog hearing a distant sound.
“Dad? Are you okay? Why are you on the floor?”
An icy hand eases onto his shoulder. Gene opens his eyes and sees the pair of legs hogging his field of view.
He slaps his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t think he can speak, but he tries anyway. “I fell.” The words come out as if they’ve been hanging on his lips for weeks.
“You fell? Are you hurt?”
Always more questions. People love their questions. Gene rarely minds answering them, but in this scenario, he feels everything is laid out quite nicely for any passerby.
“I’m not sure.”
“You look okay,” the voice says. “Let’s get you up off the floor.”
With that, another hand grips under Gene’s armpit and lifts him up. There’s no resistance. There’s no shout of pain. He lifts like a balloon floating toward the ceiling. He hasn’t felt this free in decades.
“Cassie?” Gene says after standing up. The person before him looks like his daughter, assuming he remembers all her features correctly.
“You’re the only one who still calls me that, you know?” she says with a glowing smile. She’s in her sixties now. An incredible realization. Regardless, she has kept herself healthy and sane enough that no one would ever have guessed.
“Wh—?” Gene begins.
“The door was unlocked,” Cassie says, gesturing behind her. She grabs the towel from the floor and wraps it around Gene. He stands firm on his own. “I don’t like to barge in like this, but I got worried after you didn’t answer or say anything.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s get you to the couch, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Gene says. He lets Cassie lead him out of the bathroom. She pushes aside the walker sitting near the doorway.
“We don’t need that now, huh?”
Gene nods. His steps are assured. His posture is straight. He could walk on his own, but he appreciates the growing warmth from Cassie’s hand locked in with his.
“Your brother . . .” Gene starts.
“He’s fine. He’s fine. Don’t you worry about him. He will be here soon.”
They reach the couch. Cassie releases her grip and lets him ease into it himself.
“How’s that?” she asks.
“Good. Really good. . . . It’s great to see you. I thought, I thought . . .”
“Shh, shh, shh,” she says. “It’s all okay now.” She looks at the towel wrapped around his waist. “Let me get you some clothes. Want me to put anything on?” She gestures toward the TV.
“Jeopardy, please.”
“You still watch that?” she asks with a chuckle.
“Every night.”
“I hope you get more questions right than you used to. Mom outplayed you most nights.”
“She did, didn’t she? Things evened out over the years. Sometimes, though, I let her get the ones I knew,” Gene says, winking. “It’s one of those unspoken rules of a good marriage.”
“Oh, I bet.” Cassie grabs the remote and finds the correct channel. Soon enough, Alex Trebek is introducing the three contestants, including the eight-day winner who has cash earnings of sixty-three thousand eight hundred and six dollars.
Cassie strides out of the living room and pauses at the kitchen counter. “Dad, what’s this?” She picks up the package and waves it in his direction.
“That . . . oh . . . that, that is—” His mind falters. “It’s, it’s a—”
“I’ll take a look,” Cassie says, already tearing into the perforated edge. Once opened, she tips it sideways and lets the contents tumble out. She rotates the smaller package in her hands until she finds the text. “A battery replacement for your Life Alert. Need help with this?”
“No, no,” Gene says, waving her off. “I’ll do it later. I can do it myself.” Instinctively, Gene runs a hand up to the fob dangling from his neck. It’s always been an insurance policy that he hasn’t had to cash in.
Cassie raises her eyebrows but doesn’t offer a rebuttal. She leaves the battery on the counter and disappears into the bedroom, rummaging through dresser drawers and the closet.
Gene sits content on the couch, no longer worried about shattered bones or needing the help of paramedics. He mouths the answers to clues as he knows them. He is struggling with the category called 20th Century Geopolitical Events. He knows that Mary would have done better. Her knowledge of the world far outpaced his own. She always read the newspaper and wanted to debate the headlines. Suddenly, the ache of missing her and loving her and wanting to be beside her swells inside him. The pain begins at his hip and courses upward through his chest and then beams outward at his head.
Everything hurts again. A yearning and craving so punctual in its timing that Gene can’t help but smile. For the moment, he is okay with whatever this is.
Back on the TV, the returning winner seems to have no issues as she wipes the floor with the lazy competition. The trio moves toward Double Jeopardy at a brisk pace and eager for more, but Alex stops their hunger, pushing the show to a commercial break.
Cassie returns just as Alex welcomes the audience back. She holds the suit out in front of her, high enough so that the pants don’t drag on the carpet. Black jacket and black pants with a dark gray shirt. The tie is also black, as is the worn belt that hangs limp around one of the loops. “What do you think?”
It’s easy to acknowledge the morose, suffocating nature of an all-black suit. Gene has never had such thoughts. He likes the simplicity and reliability. He likes the timeless style. His father wore a similar thing, and Gene believes his son ought to wear something just the same.
Gene unglues his attention from the TV and to his daughter. He takes a second to recognize what she’s holding. “A suit. I haven’t worn that in years. Why would I want to wear that now?”
Cassie drapes the suit over her arm, delicately, as if the fabric is looking to burst apart and saunter away. “You haven’t worn it since the funeral,” she reminds him in a gentle voice. “I think it will still fit.” She eyes the suit and then looks over at her father. “Oh yeah, you haven’t changed much,” she confirms.
“A lot has changed, Cassie.”
She shakes her head. “You’ve gotten older. So have I. We all have. Age always finds us. Look at me. I’m not a little girl anymore. I have wrinkles now, for goodness’ sake. It’s okay, though. Really. This is all a curse. One that we all endure and carry on from. Maybe we have changed, but I still think that you will look great in this suit. Anyway, we don’t have any other options.” Cassie is crying now. Soft tears that hold immense weight and meaning. She thrusts the suit toward her father. “What do you say? We need to get you ready.”
“Ready for what?” Gene asks.
Cassie uses her free hand to dab away at the tears. One escapes down her cheek and reaches her chin. She swallows twice and then speaks.
“Final Jeopardy.”