Mom's favorite

I had barely read the first paragraph of The Beautiful and the Damned when the dogs began barking at the old man next door. Clad in a white V-neck teeshirt and overalls, he was trimming back the bushes that had grown to tree-size between our two properties. Although he spoke lovingly to them, they couldn't be swayed to trust. I tried to call them from the back porch, to no avail, and I finally decided that I would have to go drag them back to the house by their collars. They tend to be hideous show-offs only when I'm outside to notice; otherwise, they would have just ignored him and been given to chasing squirrels and sunning themselves.

I knew what was coming, of course, because although the days change, the situation with my elderly neighbor remains the same.

He stopped me at the fence to talk. Or rather to listen. He has an enormous hearing aid, but it serves no real purpose. He often neglects to turn it on, and every conversation with him turns out to be strictly one-sided. I don't usually mind this. I believe that every person has a story to tell, and I care to hear his and everyone else's. So I stood there in my sandalled-feet and sundress, a feast for the swarming mosquitoes, waiting to hear his latest monologue.

He began, "Young lady, my wife is dying right now. I just wanted to tell you what was happening. She's just laying there in that bed. I don't think she'll last much longer. Maybe tomorrow... "

A bead of sweat or a tear rolled down his cheek--I couldn't determine which. I knew that it was hot and he was in pain. A mosquito bit my arm, and it felt almost irreverant to swat at it. I squashed it under my hand, and a little bit of blood splattered across my skin. I almost wanted to apologize for being distracted.

He repeated, "I just wanted to let you know what's going on." I felt awkward standing there. I didn't know what to say, and even when I tried to say something, he'd cut me off because he couldn't hear me anyway.

"My daughter from Florida, who lives in Jasper now, drove over to see us yesterday, but she's already gone," he continued. "We're all alone now. She screams so loud when I have to change her bed sheets or her clothes. She screams, 'You're hurting me! You're hurting me!' but I don't know what to do. It's so hard. It's so hard now. We're completely alone. We're going to try to take her to that special doctor tomorrow. But he's so far away."

I tried to ask him about the nurses that I used to see coming and going from the house. He didn't hear. Instead, he said, "I try to feed her watermelon. She used to love watermelon! But now she can barely eat it. (He demonstrates what she looks like when she tries to chew the watermelon with a barely open mouth.) She screams and screams about things and people from years ago. From our trip out to California and about people she knew in school. You can hear her from outside. I don't think she'll live much longer. Maybe today will be her last day...We're going to try to take her to that special doctor. Our other daughter cooks a little something for us. That's the only way we get by. It's so hard now. I bought her that car so that we could go fishing and places. We used to love to go fishing and everywhere. Now that car's only got 20000 miles on it from going back and forth to the hospital. I bought it so we could go places."

I was painfully conscious of the mosquitoes biting my feet, but I dared not move a muscle other than trying to intermittently brush one foot off with the other.

"And then when she talks, you can barely hear her. (He imitated her low mumbling.) I don't think she has long left. I just wanted to let you know what was going on. I'll let you go, young lady." I just nodded with a solemn face because I realized that's all I could really do. My son had long since gone into the house, and I had to run in to make sure he was all right in there all alone.

I looked out the window at the old man, now gone back to trimming the bushes, and I felt like I'd had the wind knocked out of me. I gathered up my book and my then-warm beer from the table and brought them inside. I haven't yet gone back to the book.

The next day, when I saw a lot of cars parked in their driveway, I baked a poppy seed cake (my own mother's recipe) and sent my husband over to deliver it.

The daughter answered the door. "Poppy seed cake," the daughter said. "Mom's favorite."