The Red Door

The Red Door
By David Ritchie

Jack Whistler closed the front door of the apartment, crossed the
living room and sat by the open window. The sirens, yelling, screeching
of brakes, and the drone of the city in general, seeped into the room
like a poisonous gas. Jack reached up and began pulling the window
down. His arms were weakened by age and by bad news.

"Well, Glover, &;#8230;" The doctor said.
"Jack. Everyone calls me Jack. 'Cause I'm a jack-of-all-trades. Call me
Jack."
The doctor looked at him, then nodded.

The window was old, and it was hard to close.

"Jack, I'm afraid the tests didn't come back the way we had
hoped."
Jack's chin dropped slightly.
"There isn't anything I&;#8230;anyone, can do, Jack."
Jack's head was nodding at the words.
"I'm sorry, Jack. I'm really sorry."
The nodding continued.

The window was sticking, but a little side-to-side rocking got it going
down again. The poison sound was diminishing.

"How long?"
"It's pretty advanced."
"How long?"
"Four to six weeks. I really am sorry, Jack."
Jack's head was still nodding.
"We'll make an appointment for you to come back Friday. Friday morning.
We'll take care of your medicine and arrange counseling. Can you come
in at nine o'clock?
"Yeah. Nine. Ok."

The window closed with a hard clap. The sound echoed around the
apartment like the noise of spectators at a Roman chariot race. When
the echo died, the apartment was without sound. Jack took a deep
breath.
He was worn out. He sat in the lounger and wasn't sure if he had just
left the doctor's office, or if it was a few days ago. The world was a
merry-go-round propelled by dread.
***
The doctor had asked if he had any family. He didn't. At least none
that he'd seen in 40 years. They were all back in Alabama. This was
Seattle. Even a straight line was no short distance between these two
places.
Then the doctor asked if he was affiliated with a church. No. Atheist.
Left those chains at the gravesite of his wife. That'd be 27 years ago.
Almost a third of his life ago.
He rose from the lounger and walked to his bedroom and lay down on the
bed. Jack was tall and lanky; his feet hung off the bottom just
slightly. Without looking, he reached over and patted the top of the
nightstand to make sure his sleeping pills were there. He was going to
need them. He heard the satisfying sound of a full bottle, and then put
both hands across his chest.
I'm going to die without family at my side. I'm going to die without
any meaning to my life.

"How long?"
"Four to six weeks."

Four to six weeks. Waitin' on something good? This is a long time.
Waitin' on something bad? It's the blink of an eye. Jack drifted in and
out of sleep. His thoughts traveled to his childhood.

Pritchard, Alabama was such an ideal place to be a child. He lived on
Turner Road, not far from Vigor High School. He and his six brothers
and sisters all went to Vigor.
All the houses in the neighborhood looked alike. Neatly mowed, square
lawns with a small white house in the middle of the lot. A front porch
with a swing that seated two. And a rattan sofa with large, heavy pads
for sitting and sipping iced tea, and greeting passers-bye.
There were several magnolia trees on the street, and the honeysuckle
grew wildly on the hedges and fences. Jack used to pull the honeysuckle
flower off and suck the sweetness from it, then put them on his
fingertips, converting fingers into claws, scaring his little
sisters.
The exception was one house that had a bright red door. The old widower
who lived there had retired long ago from the L &; N Railroad. Every
person who walked by the house with the red door before noon was
offered a cup of his strong freshly made coffee. After that, you were
offered iced tea with lemon.
All the children in the neighborhood felt free to play in his yard;
climb the big trees there, too. And there was always a bowl of finger
candy on the top step of his porch.
The man's kind words of praise when Jack told him of deeds at school,
or the playground, were indelible. And the pat on the shoulder that
came with it was gratifying. This was a safe place. This was a place
that encouraged happiness.

Jack woke up slowly. The apartment was dark.

"How long?"
"Four to six weeks."

Jack's thought's then went to the cardboard box under his bed. He
pictured the many certificates of appreciation he has received from The
Boy's and Girl's Clubs, or for the basketball coaching he used to do
for the parks department, and other time donated to children's
activities. In the box also were a few old cards he'd received from
kids he'd known through the years, many of whom were adults now.
Jack realized that the meaning he had achieved in his life was the
encouragement of happiness in others. Just like the old man who made a
mark in his life, Jack gave others a safe place to be.
In the dark, he bent down and put on his old slippers. They were the
thin, corduroy slip-ons you see in all the ads. He picked up the
sleeping pills, went to the kitchen and took them all.
He crossed the living room to make sure the window was closed, and then
unlocked the front door so they wouldn't have any difficulty opening
it.
Then he went back to the bed, sat down, pulled out of his slippers, and
lay down. The pillow felt so good, so cool on a warm night.