His Wife, His Child
They walk twice a day. He inches in front, she follows as if this was her first day at school. They’ve been married 69 years but things are changing.
A left out their small tidy tract home. A soft right curve around a gentle elbow in the road. And down apace, around the usual neighborhood cul de sac. They strive for two cycles of this hand-in-hand routine. Sometimes the route is a bit much for her so they just do the one go-round and then it’s into the lounger for Ellen and in front of the computer for Bob.
There are times when he sets off by himself, displaying the vigor of a generally healthy early-nineties gentleman. Solo, he has no problem circumnavigating their route twice. If the weather’s cool and there’s a gentle breeze, he’ll go round a third time on their patented path.
They’re Northeasterners. I believe she’s from rural Massachusetts. She tells me a story about the family coonhounds she loved. How her father would take the dogs out hunting and return with rabbits and other dinner meat. And then the dogs got sick one day and the family tried in vain to save them. She never had another animal after that. She’s told me that story once completely through. She’ll start that story over and over again when we’re together, gently persuaded by her patient husband to move along on their walk.
She has Alzheimer’s.
She wears a double strand of pearls on her walks. A floppy White Sea hat covers her fading gray hair. She usually dons a light sweater over her blouse. Her pants are normally wide, tan, and perfect. Thin soled sport shoes complete the ensemble. Up close you can see all the ages in her face: mottled pink and red skin, watery eyes, tired lines around nose and mouth. I know she’s failing. If I don’t see her for a week or two, I think the worst.
She loves my Yellow Lab Rocky. He lumbers out from the shade of our open garage to the rubs and scratches of an 89 year old white gloved hand. Her husband stands erect, his head covered with a wide-brimmed hat, a fresh short-sleeve plaid shirt surrounds his able shoulders, his legs fitted in impeccable tan chinos.
I think her smile will be the last thing taken from her.
“That’s my boy. That’s my Rocky. Who needs a dog when I can rent this beautiful boy? What a beautiful boy you are. Yes, and you know it too, don’t you? You do, don’t you? I know you do. Yes, what a love you are. What a complete love. And how old is Rocky?”
I know she’s going to ask that question. She always does. And I am happy to answer it before her husband insists she’s asked that question many times.
“He’s fourteen, Ellen.”
“Fourteen.” She responds as if she’s trying to figure out where to store *fourteen* so she won’t forget it.
Rocky does his usual figure eight around her. She bends down as much as she can to pet, scratch, pat, and rub. She can only do this with one hand because the other is filled with trash picked up on her walk.
On several occasions I have found her wandering our neighborhood, picking up various items off the sidewalk and in the gutter. Always wearing that strand of pearls and the White Sea hat.
“What have you found today, Ellen?”
She just gazes at her hand, unclenches her fist, and lets me take a look. Twigs, a penny, a gum wrapper, rubber band, bent nail, a pebble, blades of grass. Her hands are filthy from her tarmac adventures.
I hold her wrist then slowly, gently, free her from today’s collection.
“Ellen, let me save these for you. Okay?”
“That’s alright. That’s quite alright.”
“Are you heading home?”
“Heading home? Well. . .I think I’ve lost my way, come to think of it.”
She looks at the hand that used to hold her prizes. She inspects a piece of dirt still clinging to the palm.
Ellen and Bob live just around the elbow of my street. I chauffeur Ellen home to a frustrated, forlorn, and appreciative husband.
Rocky knows nothing about her: her maladies, her aches, her pains. He just responds to her love and kindness,. After a few minutes of this mutual admiration, her husband is ready to continue the journey and offers her small signals. He gently tugs at her arm and says ‘come dear.’ She ultimately relents saying “Uh huh. . .uh huh. . .uh huh. . .uh huh.” as they walk hand in hand away from us. Her words trail off in the distance like a movie soundtrack.
Soon it will be only him that makes this local journey. We’ll talk about the weather, and maybe about his daughter’s home in Wyoming. We’ll share remembrances about full moons, eastern snowstorms, and about how blue the sky can be. Rocky will come out and sniff around Bob and the spirit of his departed wife . He’ll pat my dog lightly on the head, then carry on.
And maybe that would be the day he walks four time around.
