THE HOME
Julie set the vase of daisies and a small bag on the table beside the bed. Her long brown hair was tucked behind her ears, her straight black skirt topped by a bright flowering blouse. Her face was blemished around the mouth and she had tried to hide it with her mother’s make-up. She turned at the sounds in the hallway.
“They said you were here,” the woman said, supporting her heavy body on twin canes. “Move those things off the chair and sit down. Are you writing letters for me today?”
“Yes,” Julie answered. “I brought you some nice new paper to write them on.”
She opened the bag and brought out a box of stationery decorated with pink stripes and white flowers. Then she dumped the rest of the contents on the foot of the bed.
“And I remembered you Noxema,” Julie said. “Look. I found these at the drug store. I thought you would like them.”
The woman kept one hand on a cane and took the small bottles of cologne from Julie’s firm hand. With her own shaking hands, she opened them one by one and sniffed them. She spilled most of the second bottle down the front of her shapeless dress. Julie pulled tissue from the box next to the bed and when through the motions of cleaning it up.
“This is nice, Julie,” the woman said. “It’s so sweet of you to do this for me. No one comes to see me but you anymore.”
“Look at the stationery, Gwen,” Julie responded. “Wouldn’t you just love to get a letter written on nice paper like this?”
The woman picked up the stationery box. Her trembling hands struggled with the top. Julie took the box, opened it, and handed it back.
“Oh, Julie,” she said. “Sit right down and write a letter form me. This is beautiful. Let’s write to my sister. She’d love to get a letter on this. Just start it ‘Dear Iris’. You don’t need to put a date on it. Time isn’t important when you’re as old as we are.”
Julie pulled the chair close to the bed. She got comfortable, balancing the stationery box on her lap, and sitting poised with pen ready.
The woman spoke and thought, spoke and thought. First one page and then another and another were filled. The girl wrote with small handwriting, changing the woman’s words into lines and paragraphs.
“Let’s see. What else can I say?” the woman finally asked. “What haven’t I told her?”
“Well,” Julie said, turning back to the first page, “you’ve told her about the flowers I brought, and the stationery, and Mrs. Tower’s operation, and the new nurse, and about my coming once a week, and the party for Mrs. Jenkins, and me running errands for you, and the letter we wrote to your son, and the book I brought and have been reading to you, and the outing they’re planning at the lake in June. I don’t know what else there is to tell her. It’s a pretty long letter already.”
“Just say I’ll close for now, then, and that I’ll write again soon,” the woman said. “And put ‘P.S. Write Soon’ at the bottom and I’ll sign it.
Julie helped her balance the box on her lap and center the paper. Holding the trembling, spotted hand, she guided the illegible signature across the page. The woman fell back on her pillow as soon as she had signed. Julie folded the pages and put them in a pink striped envelope.
“Her last name is Royce, isn’t it?” Julie asked.
“Yes,” came the reply. “Iris Royce. But I think I filed her address under Iris. Maybe Royce, but I’m pretty sure it’s under Iris.”
Julie found the card in the recipe file she’d organized for the woman months before. The organization had changed since then, but she could usually find what she needed. She carefully copied the address onto the envelope. She stood the envelope between the flowers and the medicine bottles on the table.
“There,” she said. “The nurse will see this in the morning and mail it for you. Remind her, if you see her. She may not do it.”
“Thank you, dear,” the woman said.
“I’ve got to go now,” Julie said.
“Okay, Julie,” the woman said sadly, watching her put on her sweater. “I love having you come. You’re so sweet to come and do this for me. I’m not old enough or sick enough to be in here, you know. I’m just here because of my hip and my family not being around to take care of me.”
“I know,” Julie answered. “You’ve told me before.”
“Well, you go now. Have a nice time.”
Julie walked down the hall. She passed the t.v. room and the recreation hall. She looked at the white-headed man who sat, as always, propped up at the card table. Around him, others played hearts, calling back and forth around him in their high, withered voices.
She opened the door, went out into the spring sun, and walked through the gate and down the street. At the corner she stopped to wait for the light to change. She turned back to look at the one-story, yellow-brick building.
“Goodbye, Home. Goodbye, Gwen,” she sang in a singsong melody. “I won’t be back again.”
She ran across the street when the light changed. She kicked a rock, skittering it far down the curb. Then she turned and walked backwards, looking again at the low building.
“For one lousy badge, I came here every week for six months. Good riddance. Goodbye, Gwen. Goodbye, Home,” she sang again. “That place gives me the creeps. Helping old ladies write letters to dead sisters. Creepy. Really creepy.”
And she ran. She ran up the hill away from the yellow building with the wind blowing about her flowered blouse and through her long brown hair.
Julie set the vase of daisies and a small bag on the table beside the bed. Her long brown hair was tucked behind her ears, her straight black skirt topped by a bright flowering blouse. Her face was blemished around the mouth and she had tried to hide it with her mother’s make-up. She turned at the sounds in the hallway.
“They said you were here,” the woman said, supporting her heavy body on twin canes. “Move those things off the chair and sit down. Are you writing letters for me today?”
“Yes,” Julie answered. “I brought you some nice new paper to write them on.”
She opened the bag and brought out a box of stationery decorated with pink stripes and white flowers. Then she dumped the rest of the contents on the foot of the bed.
“And I remembered you Noxema,” Julie said. “Look. I found these at the drug store. I thought you would like them.”
The woman kept one hand on a cane and took the small bottles of cologne from Julie’s firm hand. With her own shaking hands, she opened them one by one and sniffed them. She spilled most of the second bottle down the front of her shapeless dress. Julie pulled tissue from the box next to the bed and when through the motions of cleaning it up.
“This is nice, Julie,” the woman said. “It’s so sweet of you to do this for me. No one comes to see me but you anymore.”
“Look at the stationery, Gwen,” Julie responded. “Wouldn’t you just love to get a letter written on nice paper like this?”
The woman picked up the stationery box. Her trembling hands struggled with the top. Julie took the box, opened it, and handed it back.
“Oh, Julie,” she said. “Sit right down and write a letter form me. This is beautiful. Let’s write to my sister. She’d love to get a letter on this. Just start it ‘Dear Iris’. You don’t need to put a date on it. Time isn’t important when you’re as old as we are.”
Julie pulled the chair close to the bed. She got comfortable, balancing the stationery box on her lap, and sitting poised with pen ready.
The woman spoke and thought, spoke and thought. First one page and then another and another were filled. The girl wrote with small handwriting, changing the woman’s words into lines and paragraphs.
“Let’s see. What else can I say?” the woman finally asked. “What haven’t I told her?”
“Well,” Julie said, turning back to the first page, “you’ve told her about the flowers I brought, and the stationery, and Mrs. Tower’s operation, and the new nurse, and about my coming once a week, and the party for Mrs. Jenkins, and me running errands for you, and the letter we wrote to your son, and the book I brought and have been reading to you, and the outing they’re planning at the lake in June. I don’t know what else there is to tell her. It’s a pretty long letter already.”
“Just say I’ll close for now, then, and that I’ll write again soon,” the woman said. “And put ‘P.S. Write Soon’ at the bottom and I’ll sign it.
Julie helped her balance the box on her lap and center the paper. Holding the trembling, spotted hand, she guided the illegible signature across the page. The woman fell back on her pillow as soon as she had signed. Julie folded the pages and put them in a pink striped envelope.
“Her last name is Royce, isn’t it?” Julie asked.
“Yes,” came the reply. “Iris Royce. But I think I filed her address under Iris. Maybe Royce, but I’m pretty sure it’s under Iris.”
Julie found the card in the recipe file she’d organized for the woman months before. The organization had changed since then, but she could usually find what she needed. She carefully copied the address onto the envelope. She stood the envelope between the flowers and the medicine bottles on the table.
“There,” she said. “The nurse will see this in the morning and mail it for you. Remind her, if you see her. She may not do it.”
“Thank you, dear,” the woman said.
“I’ve got to go now,” Julie said.
“Okay, Julie,” the woman said sadly, watching her put on her sweater. “I love having you come. You’re so sweet to come and do this for me. I’m not old enough or sick enough to be in here, you know. I’m just here because of my hip and my family not being around to take care of me.”
“I know,” Julie answered. “You’ve told me before.”
“Well, you go now. Have a nice time.”
Julie walked down the hall. She passed the t.v. room and the recreation hall. She looked at the white-headed man who sat, as always, propped up at the card table. Around him, others played hearts, calling back and forth around him in their high, withered voices.
She opened the door, went out into the spring sun, and walked through the gate and down the street. At the corner she stopped to wait for the light to change. She turned back to look at the one-story, yellow-brick building.
“Goodbye, Home. Goodbye, Gwen,” she sang in a singsong melody. “I won’t be back again.”
She ran across the street when the light changed. She kicked a rock, skittering it far down the curb. Then she turned and walked backwards, looking again at the low building.
“For one lousy badge, I came here every week for six months. Good riddance. Goodbye, Gwen. Goodbye, Home,” she sang again. “That place gives me the creeps. Helping old ladies write letters to dead sisters. Creepy. Really creepy.”
And she ran. She ran up the hill away from the yellow building with the wind blowing about her flowered blouse and through her long brown hair.