Outside in the courtyard at Shrine with my dad. Brad had a mask on but no-one said anything to me about any new Covid restrictions. Within ten seconds of my clapping his shoulder to announce my arrival, Dad asked me to take him outside.
The lawn crew is edging walkways and borders.
”Where are we, the Shrine?” he asks.
”Where do you think we are?” I say.
“I think we’re there. I’m just guessing.”
The edger drones on, throttling up and down, back and forth, in and out, left to right. My dad’s eyes are blue, red, and watery.
”You want to go out there even with that lawn equipment going?”
A rhetorical question he does not answer.
It’s cooler. Way cooler. The two-cycle engine quiets for a moment, just a moment. And the rest of the soundscape steps slowly out from wherever it was hiding. The whir of crickets. Voices from inside.
”You’re not gonna see much in the sky,” he says, “ A few birds, that’s it.”
There’s the song sparrow, reeling off its spell. Nothing happens. They’ll be back to mow, and then again to blow. Maybe we’ll be at lunch by then.
The sky is cloudy. It might not even be eighty degrees, a stunning turn of events. Church bells. I’d go to that mass sometime. There are people in there who know me. Maybe they don’t know my name but they know my face and they know I’m here for my dad. That’s all I know to feel welcome. That is enough. Knowing more would break the spell. Question me, question them. See ya in another life, brutha.
”You want anything to read?”
”No, I just like to enjoy it out here,” he says, “I got papers in there I read.”
Remember back when my parents said they saw a panther, from the St. Francis entrance? They said they saw a panther go through some grass, at the edge of the back parking lot, and into the woods. I thought it must have been a dog, or possibly a bobcat.
But no. The news this morning included very clear and up close footage of a black bear on these very same Shrine grounds. This footage was taken from inside the St. Francis Center, it appeared. Either from St. Francis or from the independent-living apartments.
So my parents had seen a bear! It must be the same animal in both instances. Who knows what’s in those woods out there, between here and 157, working its way along that railroad track?
Even on the other side of The Shrine grounds, to the north across Route 15 is all of that Stiritz land (for sale now) consisting of heavy woods I walked as a Cub Scout. My dad was there with me, on occasion. The original Powder Mill. We camped on Hangman’s Lake. I can see why a bear would stop off around here. Where good birds are, where a thrush is still singing in July, it’s got to be thick enough, secluded enough.
I had a dream about Stiritz a couple nights ago. It was vivid. That whole family was there, except for Nick, my classmate in grades three and four. Train in the distance. His older sister was there, I can’t remember her name. Rebecca? I can’t remember what she looks like now, but I could see her in the dream, as she must’ve looked back then, 1988 or so. And I saw Susan (Dr. Stiritz) clearly. She was in… a rain coat… and galoshes. That alert expression, her eyes. I was in their kitchen. Was it the same kitchen? Rebecca was cooking but so was Bill Stiritz, looking like he would’ve looked back then. Aloof, slightly hunched. He didn’t really acknowledge me, like he didn’t want me to see him cooking.
The weed eater is getting closer and closer, an approaching drone.
Overhead, a jet. One of those Southwest Airlines routes. I’m guessing because I can’t see it behind the clouds. The call of a peewee. And another song sparrow, suddenly close. Its song echoing vibrato around the brick of this courtyard. I am flying on the Good Tide, 6 mg. A bee. A sweat bee, then something bigger. The weed eater tries to bore into my brain. Block it out. How?
I’ll write it away. The weed eater guy left and never came back and I never heard another. The End. Says a guy who is almost surely going to be running an obnoxious weed eater himself tomorrow, albeit in rural Missouri (eastern Miller County), where only my wife will hear it. Another jet. Dad wants to go for a spin. Dicey with lawn equipment about. We are not agile on foot and wheel.
There was another dream. I was with a group, maybe the Tijuana group. It was the last day. I can’t say where we were. It felt like Colorado but it could have been California. Yosemite, Tahoe, places I’ve never been. I was the only one who knew about the fire. It was early evening, there was still plenty of light. We were camped; had tents. There was a fire in the distance. A huge, wild fire. It could close on us fast. I started to alert people. I said, We have to pack now or we’ll be forced to flee with nothing. We are leaving tomorrow anyway, I said, We should go. But we weren’t going. No one else seemed concerned. We had cars, I guess. I woke up.
Strange dreams lately. I think it was that Alice Munro story I listened to. Going into that place where her stories exist. The liminal. Intense and unexplained.
Cornice ledge wall, master of them all. I had something like that in my head last night. Lying there, not quite asleep. My mind not racing but refusing to go away. Nonsense. Weird phrases and juxtapositions I didn’t write down. Hadn’t a notebook on hand and didn’t want to get up.
Corner ledge wall, something something something. Elements of wall. Corner, edge, I don’t have it. It’s uncanny how I could have had that phrase stuck in my head, on loop, less than twelve hours ago and now I can’t get it back. Maybe it was: edge, cornice, wall / Rome before the fall. Some place before the fall. I fall, Bob Feller, felling the wood, feeling full fill fail Phil foal folding.
A couple of people, a dad and his son, playing catch in the parking lot. My dad used to play catch with us, with me and my brother. His shoulder went at some point. He couldn’t throw anymore. He’d still catch me. I would pitch to him. He’d use a catcher’s glove. Then he’d roll the ball back to me. This was at Rockingham, early to mid-nineties. The pop of the glove. A sharp sound that carries and one I don’t mind hearing again. 12:03. Time for lunch.
There’s another visitor in the lunchroom. A child of another resident, at the table near the front door. She got up and went out of the room for a second. Her mother Joyce leaned over and said to her lunch mate, “She’s leaving today—unfortunately.”
I’m at the next table in with my dad and lunch mate Bob. Bob has not said a word. He has been chugging his lemonade. His hand wanders on the table, an extension of his eyes which don’t work very well anymore.
”What else are you looking for, Bob?” I ask him, but he doesn’t answer.
”You want more lemonade?” No answer.
That is not like him, not answering. He yawns and drinks from the empty cup.
”I’ll get you more lemonade if you want it,” I say.
”Heh heh,” he chuckles. “I got enough here I think.”
Brad delivers Bob’s plate and offers to bring him condiments. Bob is confused.
”Talk to me again,” he says. Then he does ask for one ketchup.
”Then we have some beer cheese soup over here,” says Brad.
”Beer cheese?”
Taylor, one of the CNAs, brings my dad’s plate and asks him if he’s getting used to his new room yet. My dad doesn’t answer. He recently moved into a bigger, single room. One of the best rooms in Dammert. Taylor has always been nice: cheerful and funny without trying too hard.
There is some joking about the beer cheese soup. Don’t eat too much of that beer cheese soup, ha ha. The lunches are coming out. The lunch room bubbles, reaches crescendo. It’ll be totally quiet in here twenty minutes from now, maybe sooner.
Bob is Out There today. Far away. He is twisting his napkin around his knife. I say, “Don’t forget about your food, Bob.” If he hears me, he makes no sign of it. Twisting that napkin, obsessively, tic-ish. I’ve never seen him like this. So distant and separate. Not in this reality.
At another table a newer resident named Susan asks one of her lunch mates, “How’s the bratwurst?” Her lunch mate replies, “It tastes like a hot dog.” Susan laughs. She’s chipper; been here three or four weeks. The other day I was up at the beverage cart getting water and coffee and she said to me, “OK, I gotta ask. How tall are you? Seven foot?”
She has a dry, wry laugh. She’s some of the only comic relief around today, with Bob so quiet.
12:45. My dad’s hands are clasped at his belly. I gave him half of the sandwich I had in return for his brat. He does not eat bratwurst. But I ate the whole thing. It was pretty good, just a tad of spice in there. I had no ketchup but the bun was nice and soft.
Sitting across from Joyce at the first table is Helen, the woman whose daughter Pat often visits. Helen doesn’t have much of a voice left but she’s an OG. Pat seemed to be teary-eyed once or twice last visit, which is unlike her. When I came into the lunchroom it was almost like I surprised her. Pat has to be the most frequent lunchroom visitor. She often has a fish filet with her, which always makes me think about fries. Helen can construct sentences just fine; she’s with it but her voice box must be damaged, something like that.
My dad’s former roommate, also named Bob, is at the long table in the back. “Aww,” he says, “The sun came out.” And it did. Now he unleashes a wicked cough, the sound of a car crash in a tunnel.
And now I pick up on something that had been going on which I did not write down because I wasn’t sure what I was hearing. Former roommate Bob was mocking Susan’s laugh. Which is not like him. After he coughs, she says rather pointedly to no one in particular, “Disgusting. And he wants to make fun of my laugh.” She’s hurt. She’s sweet. And I know former roommate Bob to be better than that.
CNA Dirk comes by and we exchange helloes. He’s newer, and he seems to be really solid. All the while Bob continues to twist his napkin around his knife.
Fellow B Hall resident Dave and his wife Sandy are outside with us in the courtyard after lunch. They are talking about Christmas gifts, cash.
My dad saw them and wanted to go over there. He said so repeatedly; I had to hold him back. Let them be, I urged him. But he said he just wanted to introduce himself. Sounds of mowing get closer and closer. Dave and Sandy get up to leave and my dad starts waving them over. Sandy must know him but she looks a little confused. I am cringing. Dave stays put in his chair. Sandy can get around alright but she does use a cane to favor one knee.
”I’m moving in across the street,” my dad tells her. “My wife and I.” He must be referencing his move from A Hall into B Hall, a few doors up from Dave’s room. Of course Sandy is unsure but she goes along with it. Certainly my mom isn’t moving into Dammert. I don’t know where he got that. Maybe from her helping him switch rooms. My dad doesn’t say anything else; he’s pill-rolling, thumb to middle of index finger. He’s trying to formulate something else to say but he can’t get there.
Dave and Sandy leave. I ask him what the heck he was talking about.
”Across the highway,” he says.
The room move has really thrown him.
”Across the hallway,” I say.
”No, the highway.”
”What highway?”
”Up in Breese, or wherever I have a lot. There’s a lot up there for me,” he says, “it’s mine.”
No clue what this is. He’s out there. Wires crossed. Hallucination? The mowing comes closer and closer. Clippings and dust. Run—
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