Most nights, Jules finally settled into sleep again. Six hours or so, waking naturally with the sun entering the room around 6:30. Like so many older people, Jules often took an afternoon snooze. During the night, dreams settled deeper into his psyche, with fewer alarm bells ringing inappropriately. The night sweats were gone.
Jules wondered how these communities might better prepare people like him for the transition. Maybe a survival course out in the wilderness? More realistically, perhaps a two-day workshop for new residents titled “Transitions,” in which the incoming octogenarians have to find things on a treasure hunt, navigate the new buildings and hallways and read maps. Routines became like concrete after so many years. A new home environment was like entering a new planet. The second day would focus on new appliances. The laundry machine, microwave, figuring out which remote was used for the TV, the air conditioning, and the in-house, intercom/help button. To finish up, residents would practice with light switches and adjusting the shower knobs to get a hot shower or bath going.
Jules was still with-it enough to grasp most of the basics, though the laundry machine was puzzling, with dozens of options. Why did the damn thing need 20 different settings? How about three options for the washing loads: Heavy, medium or light? Maybe a timer option for those rare one-item drying sessions.
Jules struggled. He woke without any sense of orientation. The bed was snug against a wall to provide more space in the bedroom, so he needed to scoot himself over to the side of the bed to bring his feet to the floor and begin the vertical portion of his day.
He’d never enjoyed moving in his life, but who did? All the preparation. The packing and unpacking. Just the thought of unpacking all the boxes irked Jules. Reva had been generous enough to unpack with him over the first couple days.
Seamus had surreptitiously scribbled funny words in sharpie as they were moving the boxes into the van. When Reva and Jules were unloading the boxes for the kitchenette, they spotted “flotsam” on one box, “jetsam” on another, and “lagan” and “derelict” on a third and fourth box. Jules recalled these were marine legal terms for shipwrecks. Seamus and his mischief. When Jules had opened up the box of picture frames, he’d seen the word “detritus” scratched onto the side.
Jules had a professor friend named Sam, who’d always used those terms: “flotsam” and “jetsam.” Whenever they shared a drink, Jules would command, “Float Sam!” and “Jet Sam!”
Jules saw Charlie at the walking group every Tuesday and Thursday. They enjoyed each other’s company enough that they decided to walk on the other days as well. Familiar and comforting routines. Jules began to embrace the day again. Slowly rise from bed with the light beaming in from the window. Use the toilet. Brush his teeth. Adjust the knobs for the shower so he didn’t scald himself, then take a short wake-up shower. Using the thick and comfy new towels Reva had bought, he’d dry himself off. If his stubble grew too thick, he’d dab himself with the shaving cream and, with a somewhat trembling hand, he’d shave his cheeks and chin clean. A dab of after-shave. Next, he’d head over to his dresser, take out his socks, briefs and one of his dozens of white undershirts. Putting on his underwear had become more a task within the last few years.
Still seated on the bed, Jules slid the linen trousers carefully up one leg and then the other. Finally, he ambled over to the closet and chose one of his several short-sleeved button-downs. Then off for an early breakfast.
Charlie didn’t leave his room until later. They met outside the cafeteria at 9:45. They strolled. The autumn mornings were peaceful. They watched the mother duck and her ducklings, swimming in the pond, bobbing down under the surface of the water in search of food. Dozing in the shallows along the rim of the pond. The ducklings were growing up fast. Sometimes after walking for half an hour, Jules and Charlie would sit on the bench and feed them, Charlie bringing dried mealworms.
After a week or so, Charlie invited Jules back to his room. Jules sensed a feeling of gratitude welling up in his chest. Somewhere along the way, decade after decade, new friends had become rare. Charlie’s room was in a different wing of the facility. Charlie’s memory was sharp and clear. He didn’t seem to have even a touch of dementia. Jules had been diagnosed with the mild type, his room was in what he called the “Introduction to Dementia” wing.
Neither Charlie nor Jules had visited the Alzheimer’s floor of the building. There were thick, locking doors. A hulking nurse named Marcellus was positioned at the entrance. Jules sometimes heard angry shouts, moans and other shrill sounds coming from inside the Alzheimer’s floor.
Sometimes he saw one of the residents at the cafeteria, with a nurse or a visitor watching over them. Jules admitted to Charlie that he feared a scenario where he couldn’t simply walk to breakfast and eat alone. Jules had developed an image he used as a coping mechanism for these specific thoughts. He imagined his own mind with beautiful emerald and azure glass marbles rolling around inside. He found the hole where the marbles were escaping, sliding out of the bowl of his mind, down and out of his ear. He imagined covering the hole with cotton and tape. Now the marbles would be contained.
The morning before Jules headed over to Charlie’s, he sat down at the cafeteria. A fog settled over the trees outside. While sipping coffee, Jules was reminded of freshman year in the dorms. Sharing a bag of peanuts and beers with his dorm buddies. Playing cards and discussing the girls. Going out to see films and hollering at Drexel’s basketball games. Jules recalled the year. 1958. He could remember intense philosophical debates about America’s future, desegregation and the rise of the Civil Rights Movement. The bombing of the Baptist church in Birmingham. The sit-ins. War beginning to spread in Vietnam only five years after U.S. troops had left Korea. He felt a wave of sadness. His old pal Leonard, the photographer. Heart attack in his late-60s. Now 25 years ago. A beautiful service in upstate New York.
Jules walked over to Charlie’s floor—Charlie had told him “A9.” Jules realized butterflies had begun to flutter in his stomach. “Wow,” thought Jules. “Am I actually nervous?” Engaging with the world, the intimacy of being in Charlie’s room; Jules hadn’t made a new friend in a long time. Jules passed by A1 and thought of the steak sauce. Then A2 and A3. Charlie’s must be at the end of the hall. Jules stopped in front of the door. A9—Charles Cunningham. Whoever had printed the sign had used a smaller font just to fit “Cunningham” on the line.
Charlie welcomed Jules in, asked him to remove his shoes, and took a mug from the cabinet next to the fridge. With a slow pour, he filled a mug with dark roast and handed it to Jules. The walls were filled with framed posters of events Charlie had participated in. Rallies. Protests. Peace festivals. Poetry readings. Music concerts. Charlie had lived up and down the west coast, teaching third and fourth graders. Charlie and his wife were both teachers. They’d met in LA in the 1960s. Charlie had just entered a grad program. Paula worked as a teaching assistant in the summer program. They both taught in East LA, then moved up to Seattle for a while, before settling into middle-age with their teenage kids in Fort Bragg. They retired in 1996.
When Charlie used the bathroom, Jules took a look at the collage of pictures in a frame by the kitchen. The pictures of Charlie and Paula looked like they were from at least 20 years ago. Jules thought Paula must’ve died. When he returned, Charlie saw Jules, peering in at the dozen or so pictures. Charlie just came out and said it. “Breast cancer. Caught it too late. Most difficult months of my life. It was 2005. We’d only retired nine years earlier. Life throws you upside down, don’t it?”
Charlie walked over and put his arm around Jules’ shoulder, both men still examining the photographs. Jules recognized Charlie was safe to confide in. There wasn’t an inauthentic bone in his body. “My Violet was killed by a drunk driver on a summer morning. Ten years ago. Still feel the ache in my chest every night,” Jules looked out the window.
On the terrace below, a tiny elderly woman sat in a wheelchair, her long silver hair flowing behind her in the breeze.
“We’re lucky to live into our 80s, but we’re not always lucky to have all the memories, eh?” Charlie went back to the counter to refill his mug.
As the hour passed, Jules and Charlie filled each other in on the details. Jules spoke of Lisa and then Reva’s birth. Lisa’s mania and eventual departure. Reva finally graduating and heading off to college. Meeting Violet and gradually opening his heart up once again.
Charlie spoke of the classroom as a sacred space of connection. He and Paula had supported each other through various semi-functional school environments, and eventually chose to have their own children. First Penelope. Then Gus.
Penelope was living in San Antonio, recently divorced. Her kids were both in graduate school, one studying to be a doctor and the other about to start teaching high school. Charlie adored being a grandpa just as Jules did. Then Charlie spoke of his son. Gus was a wandering soul, a guitarist and singer. He’d had drug issues that Charlie was sure were connected to his long-term mental health. Charlie mentioned rehab, the dance of two steps forward and one step back. He forced a smile, though Jules could see in Charlie’s eyes the resignation of lost connection and the torment Charlie wrestled with.
Charlie enjoyed chess and doing puzzles. He admitted he was pretty good at chess. Jules hadn’t played in forever. Charlie won two matches easily, but it was a pleasant enough way to pass the time before lunch. Then Jules opened up his bag. He took out that familiar maroon Scrabble box. They talked and played. Snacked and sipped like long-lost brothers.
At noon, Charlie made two turkey, cheese and avocado sandwiches. Jules found himself hoping he could stay there all day, but knew a nap was probably needed for both of them. A few minutes before one, Charlie hinted that he was fading. The two men embraced. Charlie hugged Jules for a moment longer than he’d expected and then said, “This was really great. Next time, you can have me over.”