The Falling Leaves Home - Part 3

The Falling Leaves Home

Part 3

Harry Buschman

It was an even longer night, an endless night interrupted by a catnap or two. I was too tired to get up and too restless to sleep. My senses seemed sharper than usual and I could hear noises throughout the home I never noticed before. A cry in the dark, a cough .... someone padding by my door on a walker. Do you know the sound of an old man on a walker? .... a click, a creak and a grunt. Outside, the wind seemed to have picked up and I thought I could hear bones rattling.

How little the young know us, I thought––here I am, like Lear, "eighty years and upward" falling in love all over again. Some things are always the same, toothache, heartburn and yes, heartache too, they hurt the old as much as the young, and with so little strength left to fight, they can hurt even more.

About an hour or two before dawn I got up and stared down into what we call our patio, a strip of dirt and dying grass. Ah yes! There's the bones I heard––the wind had blown the plastic chairs in a tangled heap across the driveway. I went to the bathroom, (and thank God for small favors) you'll be happy to know, Seymour, I won't need your support and advice. I was hungry too, love is like that.

I was edgy, too keyed up to stay in bed. I wondered if the cook had gotten in yet. You can't sneak a snack at the home––everybody eats by the clock, but I thought maybe she was in the kitchen by now and I could work my charm on her. Ophelia was a cheerful black lady not much younger than me, and very susceptible to flattery. She usually got in around dawn to fire up the oatmeal.

"Oo-eee, you scared the hell outa me, Mister Morasse. What you doin' wanderin' around this hour?"

"Come to see you Ophelia––I've been thinking about you all night."

Flirtation is a dying art, but when you desperately need a cup of coffee you'll use every rusted and bent weapon in your arsenal. "Actually, Ophelia, I've been awake most of the night .... I heard you come in and rather than ring for O'Casey I came to you."

"I'm surprised there ain't more of you," she said, "It hadda been them croquettes, they came from the chicken we had Sunday––don't get me wrong Mr. Morasse" she added, "The food's good here, good as I can make it, but it doesn't always go down too good with old folks."

I got a cup of coffee and complimented Ophelia on her gorgeous legs, and with my mind dreading the coming of the day, I went back to my room. Hugo was up and brushing his uppers and lowers in the bathroom. There are few things to compare with the sight of a man brushing his teeth in the palm of his hand, unless it's the sight of Herman down the hall putting his shoe on the end of his wooden leg. We are made up of bits and pieces. We come apart. We are dismembered, and we don't know which is the living part of us and which is the property of Medicare.

Today I must face Claudine Prolifka. It's been a sleepless night, but after a memorable bowel movement and a cup of Ophelia's coffee there's a chance I may survive another day. I picked out a red tie with black stripes, (Hester bought it for me to wear at the retirement dinner) my gray slacks with the elastic waist band, (no belts at the home) and a white shirt. The shirt had yellowed in the three years I've been here, but it looked almost white in the morning light. Hugo was through in the john and I was determined to make myself as young as a man of 84 can be.

I took a shower. Taking a shower without an attendant to watch over you is a no-no at Falling Leaves. Well, the hell with that! I wanted one now, not four hours from now. What had gotten into me? I was acting like a man getting ready for a date!

With breakfast over the next sporting event is the dash for the morning paper and if you lose out on that there's nothing for it but to sit and watch Good Morning America. I wasn't interested in the news––too much on my mind I guess. I checked out the bulletin board to see what excitement was planned for the guests of Falling Leaves for the day. There was a bus trip to a pickle factory out on Long Island, and a man was coming in to show his photographic slides of the nation's national parks. But more important than either of these was a hand lettered note on pink paper from Claudine Prolifka saying she was having a "getting to know you" party at 1:00 p.m.

"Well, this is it, Charlie," I thought. Maybe I could put this time warp dilemma to the test––get it out of my mind. I couldn't go on this way much longer. But there were five hours to go, what would I do with myself until then? Well, it was a warm morning, Dexter had put the lawn chairs back on the patio––it might be nice to sit in the sun and think a while.

Joe Acker was already in his catbird seat with his binoculars. Joe was a bird watcher and kept a daily list of the feathered friends who visited Falling Leaves. Pickings were slim for both Joe and the birds––I never saw anything but pigeons and sparrows scratching in the dirt and I suspect Joe didn't either but his list of rare species grew longer every day.

With the warm sun on my chest I must have drowsed a bit, I fantasized too, in a way and wondered why I was here in this place, this home––I wasn't like the others. I had most of my buttons, and in pretty fair shape for the shape I was in. I thought how nice it would be if I was back in my old apartment again, to come and go as I pleased––on my own––on my Goddamn own! If it hadn't been for the accident I could be. I was standing in the front of the bus, having given up my seat to girl young enough to be my granddaughter .... she took it too! Then the cab cut in front of the bus and the driver swerved up on the sidewalk and into the wall of Citibank.

Fractured skull, broken shoulder and amnesia. Everything in my past wiped away, it was like I was a new-born, no memory of anything before the accident. I didn't know my two sons, I didn't know my name, I didn't know why I was in the hospital with a broken shoulder. They put me in Falling Leaves. I can't blame them, who wants to be saddled with an 80 year old infant?

Little by little things came back, a sound or a smell would trigger my mind into remembering something that happened long ago. When it did come back it was sharper and more focused than it had ever been. Lots of things I had forgotten in the course of earning a living and raising a family––Christmas and vacations, and how Hester looked on that last Easter Sunday .... I must have dropped off to sleep. Someone was shaking my arm gently.

"Mr. Morasse––are you all right?"

It was Claudine––God was I embarrassed! I was slumped to one side in the plastic chair, I had drooled down the front of my shirt and my tie was pulled askew. She couldn't have seen me at a worse moment, and after all my careful planning! I don't think I said anything––probably couldn't.

"Mr. Morasse, we didn't get to meet last night and everyone around here tells me you should really meet Charlie Morasse, he's such an interesting man––I wanted to make sure you'll be with us this afternoon."

Yes, the voice was the same. The accent not as pronounced as Heidi's, but after all, sixty years in the states would account for that. "I'll be there Miss Prolifka, I'm looking forward to it."

Please, Mr. Morasse––it's Claudine."

Here was my first chance. "Please Claudine .... it's Charlie."

"Okay, it's a deal." Dammit she didn't bite––I wanted to hear her say "Sharlee" and she didn't take the bait––well, later maybe, I had enough to think about now.
It was later than I thought, almost noon. I must have slept a couple of hours. But God Almighty she was the spitting image of Heidi! .... I would have bet my shirt if she wasn't Heidi. Speaking of my shirt, I would have to change it now, but maybe I should wait until after lunch .... and that means I'll have to look for another tie too. I was trying too hard, too many things to think about, why couldn't my life be as simple as Joe Acker's––counting the pigeons and the sparrows.

This afternoon would tell the story––suppose she asks me to dance, could I possibly put my arms around her without blurting out the whole story? I'm not sure––I'm not ....