Usual stipulations apply. All my stories can be found in the NIFTY Prolific Net Authors section. I also maintain a notification list. If you'd like to be added to it, let me know at the e-mail address below.
As always, many thanks to Andrew for proofing.
jvoyager@hotmail.com
Part One
Marvin Hartley drove slowly between
the overhanging trees, trees he'd helped plant just over fifty years
ago.
He waved as he passed Mildred Long.
She was a small woman, now slightly stooped with age. With her gray hair
tied back in a tight bun and bound up in a cotton scarf, she returned the
wave as she rested from tending the flowers in her front yard. The flower
beds seemed to get smaller each year as her ability to care for them
diminished.
Mildred and her husband Tom had
been friends of his and Tillie's. She was one of the few people living
on Laurel Street who'd been there almost as long as Marvin, but now, since
Tillie's death, Marvin hadn't see much of his neighbors.
Mildred Long's husband, Tom, had died in 1973 and she'd never remarried. She raised their kids by herself on the meager income provided by Tom's insurance. Now her daughter, Laura and her son, Tom, Jr., both lived in California and Mildred didn't see them often, not more than a couple of times a year.
Mildred Long, like Marvin, was
alone.
Marvin was fortunate, though. His
daughters had married local boys and stayed close by, living only a few
miles away in the newer suburbs. Now his grandchildren were grown and were
beginning to have families of their own. Some of them, his daughters, his
sons-in-law, or the grandkids, came by several times a week, checking up
on things, seeing how Grandpa was doing.
Marvin drove carefully, too slowly
for the people behind him. He was relieved to be home. Pulling his
eleven-year-old
Oldsmobile into the drive and then into the garage was always a relief.
He knew at his age a single accident could cost him his driver's license.
Even if the Department of Motor Vehicles didn't take it, his daughters
would be after him again, telling him how dangerous it was for a man his
age to still be driving.
A greater danger, he knew, was losing
his insurance. Bill Carter, one of Marvin's oldest friends, had been in
an accident a year before. It wasn't his fault. In fact, the girl who'd
rear-ended him had been ticketed, but Bill's insurance premiums shot up
and he could no longer afford coverage on his retirement income. It was
awful for Bill, not being able to drive, and Marvin tried to go by to see
his old friend and take him shopping at least once a
week.
The afternoon was still hot but the
shadows were lengthening as Marvin carried two bags of groceries into the
house and put them away. The kitchen of the little bungalow was small.
The entire house was small. He and Tillie had bought it in 1951, three
years after they'd gotten married, and it had been the only place they'd
ever owned.
The house was modest but they'd
been happy there. They'd lived modestly, even after Marvin's business took
off and they could have afforded a bigger, newer place. Instead of moving,
they'd stayed put. The girls had shared the back bedroom until they went
off to college and the other bedroom, the slightly larger one in front,
had been his and Tillie's. It was there that his wife had
died.
Instead of a larger house and newer cars, Marvin and Tillie had lived frugally. They'd saved their money, first for their daughters' college expenses, then for their own retirement. In 1990 he'd finally sold his real estate appraisal business. With the proceeds from the sale, and the money they'd invested each month for over fifty years, they had enough to live on, even a little extra to travel when they wanted.
Now alone, Marvin sometimes thought he was fairly well off. It wasn't the lack of funds which kept him home, which limited his life. It was the simple fact of being alone, not having anyone to go places with, do things with; that and his advancing age which made even simple expeditions such a chore.
Marvin poured himself a glass of iced tea and made his way into the front room. He got comfortable in his old leatherette recliner and flipped the TV remote. Later he'd make himself a sandwich or fix one of those frozen dinners.
Now in his eighties, Marvin was still
a handsome man. He'd lost a little of his original height; six-two, he'd
always said, but he was still above six feet. He watched his weight, which
was still just under two hundred pounds, as it had been for thirty years.
He took pride in his appearance and always dressed with care, not wanting
to slip into the slovenly habits he saw in so many men his
age.
His thick, gray hair, which
complimented
his steel-blue eyes, was neatly trimmed and he took care to comb it into
place several times each day. He dressed casually, usually in neatly ironed
khaki slacks and sport shirts, but more formally when the occasion
demanded.
Now, at the end of the day, Marvin
was home, his tasks were done and he was finally able to
relax.
The news was depressing and he ran
through the channels, stopping briefly to listen to the rantings of some
TV evangelist. Marvin was not, at heart, a religious man. His own family,
when he was a boy, had not attended church at all. When he met Tillie and
got to know her family, he discovered that they were quite religious. They'd
been pillars of the same church for three generations. Tillie had been
in the choir since childhood and it was an important part of her
life.
Marvin had begun attending church
with Tillie while they were dating, and had continued over all the years
of their married life. Now it was a part of his life, too. He went every
Sunday, sitting in the "Hartley Pew," with the growing assembly of his
children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
If asked what he believed, really
believed, Marvin would have quoted the Creeds, but behind that easy formula
of words he was less sure. The church for him was an important institution,
a protector and conveyer of moral standards, the educator of children and
the preserver of traditions he'd come to hold dear.
God, Marvin sometimes thought, must
be amused at the antics of us humans, but God was a gentleman and he seemed
to leave us mainly to our own devices. When Tillie was ill, Marvin had
prayed, never knowing just how or what to ask; he'd prayed for an end of
her suffering, knowing that end would probably be death.
Marvin switched the TV channels
again, finding an old sit-com, one he'd seen before, years before with
Tillie. Remembering that, remembering her, he felt a sudden wave of
loneliness.
She'd only been gone three months and he'd not gotten used to her not being
there.
The last two years had been hard.
The last few months of Tillie's life had been awful, but he'd kept her
at home, as he'd promised he'd do. The hospice nurses had come two days
a week, then three as things got worse. The last month they came every
day, telling him each time they came that he really should move his wife
to a nursing home. But he'd followed his wife's wishes. She'd been allowed
to die at home and she had lived to see the spring, or at least the
beginning
of it. He'd brought her a little bouquet of daffodils from their garden
the very day she'd died.
Marvin dozed a little, then returned
to the kitchen to made himself a simple meal. He wasn't really hungry,
but he knew he needed to eat.
The summer evening came on slowly. Twilight shadows filled the room. He fell asleep in the old recliner, as he seemed to do more and more frequently.
As the TV chattered softly, he woke
and memories drifted back. He remembered those early years when he and
Tillie were dating, and when they were first married. He remembered those
years when he was working part time for old Mr. Hedges, learning the
practical
side of the real estate business while he took business classes at the
local college on the GI Bill.
Marvin had been twenty-eight when
they married, Tillie only twenty-two. In some ways he felt as if a big
part of his life, or at least a big part of his youth, had been stolen
by the War. He'd served four years in the Army, first in England, then
in France, and he knew he'd been lucky. He'd returned unscathed, unlike
the men who'd returned crippled and maimed, and so many who'd not made
it home at all.
He and Tillie had had a good life together. They'd been married over fifty years, raising their two girls, watching grandkids grow up, and then the two great-grandkids Tillie had lived to see. Now another great-grandchild was on the way, the first who'd not know Tillie.
As the twilight deepened, Marvin's
thoughts drifted further back, back to those years before the War. Just
after he'd finished high school, for lack of a better plan or money for
college, he'd joined the CCC, the Civilian Conservation Corps. As he dozed,
his thoughts drifted back to those days, to wonderful, sad memories,
memories he didn't often allow himself, memories of Sam.
To be continued.