Some days his books were enough. The Sixers won a few games and were within sight of a playoff berth. Still, the winter rain was constant and Jules’ phone calls with Reva grew infrequent and strained. She was going through a busy stretch of work and when she did talk, she was worried about his memory. He was tired of that. Too often, what Jules remembered were moments of a past life. So many of the characters involved in those internal movie scenes, they were long gone. He wasn’t so worried about what he forgot. It simply wasn’t in there anymore. Jules had finally lost it with Reva. She’d been surprised when he forgot Neve’s birthday. Jules was defensive and agitated, his voice rising, “It’s natural to forget! Of course I care about Neve! We don’t need to remember everything!” Reva was silent. “Why can’t you accept that?” he demanded. She apologized and hung up the phone. An hour later, his call went to her voicemail, and he left his own apology.
Reva sat down for her solo dinner. Sunday night, almost seven o’clock in Philadelphia. Almost four in Santa Barbara. Reva sat at her oval dinner table, looking around at the empty chairs beside her. Why did she buy four chairs? Eventually there would be guests. Her daughters would visit. Only one was needed most of the time. Occasionally a second chair, when a friend or date happened to be with her in the condo. She stared at her bowl of clam chowder. Garlic bread on the plate beside it, warmed in the oven. A can of sparkling water and an overly-filled glass of Riesling.
She thought about her dad. They hadn’t spoken since his irritated reaction during their conversation two weeks ago. She texted him. Waited 10 minutes. Tried to enjoy her chowder. Growing increasingly anxious, she finally called him. Still no response. Then she emailed him. Her worry began to spread out beyond concern and pooled into fear. Reva texted Becca, who was studying for an exam. They texted back and forth for a few minutes. Reva checked the weather in Santa Barbara. Overcast and chilly. She hoped her dad wasn’t out walking. The sun would set in 10 minutes.
Sunday afternoon, a few minutes before four. Jules has napped away half of the day. Late-winter rain had consumed most of the weekend. Jules needed spring to bring its possibilities. He has been feeling anti-social and irritable. Ako and Ruby still came most weekdays. Ako in the mornings and Ruby in the late afternoons. The visits momentarily uplift Jules. The house is in better shape. His fridge is stocked. Things are okay, but the house remains empty most of the time.
Thick gray clouds hang low overhead. No sunset for Santa Barbara tonight. Jules zips up his parka, puts on his wool cap. An early evening stroll to clear his mind. The ginger ale with a heavy splash of gin. Loosens him up and blurs his vision just a bit.
He closes the front door and locks it, depositing the keys in his pocket. As he walks, he begins wondering about these people in these houses a few blocks away from him. The house where he sits, eats, watches things, and sleep, where Ako and Ruby come and go, where Seamus sometimes comes and sits on his couch, spilling snacks all over himself. He wonders how many of these strangers are like him, old and alone, in their last phase of life, taking too many pills, getting help from others, or not getting help, but ultimately unhappy.
He thinks about the time he got lost in the supermarket recently. He laughs to himself. He thinks, “What a way to live. Never knowing exactly where we are. But isn’t that always kind of true?” Jules shakes his head at the darkening clouds. Darkness is creeping in. Jules thinks about the sun, and how it’s all an illusion. The sun never moves. Our planet moves, spinning imperceptibly. Ideas about how it all fits together, and then how tragedy strikes someone you love, and makes it obvious how unlikely being alive even is.
All this time, Jules has been walking down the hill. He’s now down the hill, about 10 blocks from his home. He’s lost in his thoughts, not recognizing he’s getting lost on the walk. The wind’s whipping around him. He doesn’t have his phone. “Fucking idiot!” he thinks to himself. Jules is getting tired and has to piss. He sees a bus stop. Unfamiliar. There’s a man with a dog. The man doesn’t smell okay. The dog looks tired. The man asks if Jules has any money. Jules responds, “I’m sorry, I don’t have my wallet with me.” Jules asks the man if he has a phone. The man’s expression becomes terrifying. He screams at Jules about needing a few dollars for dinner. Jules scrambles away from the bench.
Jules looks around for a pay phone. He has a few quarters in his jacket pocket. There are no pay phones anymore. “What the hell is happening to this world?” Jules thinks. Jules remembers using a pay phone. He drifts back as he walks in the gloaming. Evening is settling around him and street lights are dim. He watches the sidewalk and makes sure not to stumble on the cracks.
1968. Central Square, Cambridge. Hummus and a plate of pita bread. Savory lamb in a heavy sauce. Jimi Hendrix’s “Castles Made of Sand” played loudly from the speakers. He stepped out of the Middle Eastern restaurant, miserable and wallowing after a brutal fight with Lisa. He called home to his parents. Jules rarely called his dad during those years. He needed someone, some wisdom to stop the ground from falling away beneath him. Philip picked up the phone.
“This too shall pass,” his Dad repeated solemnly. Philip told Jules about his long-standing issues with Nina. How stubborn she’d become. How fearful she was whenever anything changed, even slight alterations to plans. How she rarely wanted to go outside and stopped taking walks with him. Jules listened as his dad provided a conversational life raft. Jules must’ve put in 10 quarters, people banging on the glass door. By the end of the call, Jules was okay. He and Lisa made up the next morning and made passionate love three times that next day.
Now Jules is back in his current confused reality. He’s a frightened 83-year-old man on a chilly night in Santa Barbara, trying to figure out how to get home. He’s not even three miles from his house, but from his perspective, he might as well be walking on the other side of the planet, wandering the desert. He walks another block, takes a right and spots a familiar sign: the green-bordered orange and red sign of a 7-Eleven. With a sigh of relief, Jules walks ahead. Not thinking to look around, but still moving, he crosses the street, ignoring the light. A truck whizzes by him, nearly running him over, swerving at the last second, just out of his way, honking its horn. Jules nearly falls over, but regains his footing, collects himself and realizes he’s in the middle of the street. Jules staggers across to the sidewalk. Jules opens the door and makes his way inside.
The store’s empty except for a gentle-looking woman with bags under her eyes standing behind the counter. Her name tag reads “Ghania.” Jules nods to her. He walks over to the counter and explains, in a soft voice that he barely recognizes as his own, that he’s lost and he’s left his phone at home. He tells her he’s gone out walking over an hour ago, but he’s gotten turned around.
Ghania empathizes and tells him not to worry. She gives him her cell phone to make a call. Jules can’t recall a single telephone number. He shakes his head. With a whisper, he manages to say “I don’t know. I just need a drive home.” Though Jules feels like lying down on the floor and sobbing, he refuses to let himself. Ghania comes around from behind the counter and holds his hand, looking into his bewildered wet eyes. She asks Jules if he’ll allow her to call her nephew, who’s a Lyft driver. She asks if he remembers his address. Finally, the street name comes to Jules. “Maple. I live at 96 Maple Ave.”
The car arrives 15 minutes later. Jules and Ghania are sipping tea behind the counter on stools. The nephew’s a young man with a scruffy beard. He shakes Jules’ hand and introduces himself as Ahmed. He says he’s happy to give Jules a ride home. Ghania walks Jules to the car and helps him sit down in the passenger seat.
Jules thanks Ahmed as they drive back to Jules’ house, slowly winding their way up the hill. Ahmed’s cheerful and relaxed. A saxophone plays from his stereo. Jules wonders if it’s Coltrane and asks Ahmed. “Sonny Rollins. My favorite,” Ahmed responds. They take a final turn onto Maple and Jules feels a wave of calm settling over him. Familiar homes of pleasant strangers he waves hello to, but doesn’t know the names of. There it is. 96 Maple. The stucco and neatly-trimmed windows under the red-clay shingled roof. Ahmed pulls to a stop and parks. Jules shakes his hand and tells him he’ll be right back. Jules shuffles up the driveway, past his old Camry and carefully climbs the steps leading to his front door. Jules goes inside and finds some cash.
Ahmed won’t take the money. “Oh, don’t worry about it, but thank you. Jules, please make sure not to walk without your phone. Or to go out too late in the day. Tashabuk alsalama. That means peace be with you, Jules.”
Jules thanks him and tells him, “Please thank Ghania. She was so kind.” Jules holds the bills out to Ahmed and says, “Something nice for her.” Finally, Ahmed takes the money and says, “Okay, a bouquet of flowers for Ghania. Goodnight.”
Jules nods, “Goodnight.”
When Jules closes the front door, he weeps with relief. He walks into the bathroom and takes a shower. As the steam rises all around him, he realizes how disoriented he’d been. How had he decided to keep walking all that way?
Jules sits on his bed, putting on clean underwear and lifting his tired legs one at a time, pulling up his gray sweatpants. He takes a white undershirt from the dresser and pulls it over his head. He lets himself breathe for a few minutes, and walks into the kitchen, where his phone’s still charging. He sees Reva’s texts, then Becca’s, then Reva’s voice mail. Jules calls her and lets her know he’s okay. He hesitates to go through the labyrinth of the last hour. He isn’t sure he knows what happened. He says he simply got lost and kept walking. He knows it’ll catalyze Reva into action, but tells her anyway. Reva doesn’t speak, only murmurs. He can hear in her voice how she’s trying not to let the emotions overtake her. Jules feels awful. Guilty for putting her and Becca through that.
A few days later, Reva notifies the school district that she’s planning a leave of absence for the spring. She’ll return in August. She tells Jules she’s moving in with him until they figure out what to do next. Jules knows he has no choice and welcomes her.