Against the Wind. Jim Tilley
“Hi Ralph— Nice to see you, too,” Lynn says.
He can’t tell whether she’s irritated or kidding. He takes the card from her, moves back a little, then steps forward and gives her a hug. “Lynn. I’m glad you decided to come. I appreciate it.”
“Me too. That’s much better.”
He hands her back the key card. “Have you eaten breakfast? They have a buffet here every morning. It’s edible.”
He’s relieved that she turns it down. On the way to his parents’ place, he tells her that they moved last year from their scenic waterfront home in the Thousand Islands to an assisted-living facility with a view of commercial buildings and open fields that will soon be built up into more commercial buildings. His mother finally decided she could no longer cope with the housework and cooking and caring for his father, whose dementia has now progressed beyond the early stages. His father can still carry a conversation and tell a joke, but keeps asking the same questions over and over. It exasperates his mother. He tries to visit often to offer some relief.
After registering in the guestbook at the front desk of the facility, they take the elevator to the top floor. Lynn notes the wide, well-lit hallways.
“Wheelchairs and walkers. It’s a two-lane highway. The faster folk need to be able to pass the slower ones.”
“I bet it’s a highly controlled environment.”
“You have no idea. No stoves, hot plates, candles, matches. No smoking. Nothing that might start a fire. Microwave ovens. Emergency cords in the bathrooms. No tubs or sinks that hold water for very long. Mind you, no plastic caps on the wall outlets, but otherwise childproofed.”
They knock on the door of Room 400 and are met by his parents. “Mom and Dad, I’d like you to meet an old friend—Lynn Adams. Lynn, please meet Claire and Gordon. I guess it’s more like meet again.” After hugs all around, they sit in the living room, Gordon in his recliner, Claire on the small sofa, Lynn and Ralph in adjacent armchairs, everything oriented to face the television.
“Would anyone like tea?” his mother asks. “Ralph, you can boil water in the microwave and make what you want: Chamomile, English Breakfast, Earl Grey. You know where the tea bags are.”
“Mom, do you remember Lynn? She and I were in the same homeroom from first grade through high school.”
“I remember her,” says his father. “She’s the one you wanted to marry.”
Lynn laughs. She’s glad Ralph has warned her. “That’s right. Forty years ago he did, but a French Canadian snatched me out of his arms. He’s never got over it.”
Ralph makes a point of pouting, but his father is not easily put off. “Why are you here now?”
“We met up again a few weeks ago. I asked Ralph to help me find a lawyer.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Not really. They’re trying to put wind turbines in my backyard.”
“Where’s your backyard?”
“In Picton.”
“Has Ralph been able to help you?”
“He’s recommended a good lawyer.”
“But he’s a good lawyer himself. Why not him?”
“That’s what I asked him.”
Ralph doesn’t comment. He sinks back in the armchair and allows the conversation to take its natural course. With his father, it’s like a river seeking the gradient of the land. He’s curious to see where it will end up today. Lynn seems game, but Ralph knows her patience will run out when she gets trapped in one of his father’s oxbows, the questions and answers eddying round and round.
“It didn’t work out for the residents of Wolfe Island,” says Claire.
“It probably won’t for us either,” says Lynn.
“What day is it?” Gordon asks.
Here we go. “Saturday, Dad.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Lynn. From high school and college. Back in St-Jean and Montreal.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“She lives nearby in Picton. I thought you and Mom might be glad to see her again.”
“I am. She’s very pretty. How did you find her?”
“In St-Jean, back in grade school. Do you remember?”
“I don’t remember much these days.” Gordon shifts his body, trying to find a more comfortable position in his recliner.
Claire glances at Ralph and sighs. “We’ll be able to have an easier conversation after lunch when he takes a nap,” she whispers to Lynn. “I hope you brought a book—Ralph and I like to work on Sudoku while Gordon dozes.”
“I like puzzles too,” says Lynn.
“Great— Here’s one I did yesterday. They called it ‘devilish’— I’ll copy it onto a blank template for each of you.”
While Claire works on today’s puzzle, Lynn and Ralph start on yesterday’s. After a few minutes, he says, “Mom, there’s no low-hanging fruit.”
“That’s why I set it aside for you.”
“What’s low-hanging fruit?” Lynn asks.
Ralph tells her that he coined the term to refer to the squares that are easy to fill in, the ones that can be solved for quickly, merely by scanning horizontally or vertically. “Picking the low-hanging fruit first makes the rest of the puzzle easier.”
“Tarzan’s queer younger brother,” says Gordon chuckling, obviously pleased with himself.
“What?”
“Low-hanging fruit.”
Lynn laughs so hard she almost falls off the ottoman to which she’s moved. “Gordon, are you always this funny?”
“I try— Especially when there’s a pretty girl in the room.”
A half hour later, Gordon snoring lightly, Claire engrossed in her puzzle, Ralph struggling with his, Lynn exclaims, “Ta da!” and puts down her pencil.
“Ralph, she beat you,” says Claire.
“That’s why I don’t do them,” says Gordon, stirred from his snooze. “They’re not a true test of intelligence.”
“Now, Dad. You know they are— You hate to lose.”
“No more than you,” says Claire.
“True enough— ” Ralph replies. “Except to a pretty woman.”
With his father napping in the bedroom after lunch, Ralph commandeers the recliner, lies back and closes his eyes, shutting out the conversation between Lynn and his mother. It’s always like this when he visits, his parents sitting around all day talking, snoozing, reading, more and more of the same in the retirement home, the residents more like inmates in a low-security compound, all surrounded by the walls of themselves and others more or less the same, less and less they can remember each passing month, the same conversations, a wonder any of them can recall what day it is, his father checking the date in the newspaper on the table beside the recliner, and if his mother hasn’t yet picked up the paper from the mailroom, his father digests the same news, the world stuck in its wars, murders and scandals, the same sports teams winning by the same margins, the same people getting married and dying, the comic strip characters up to the same antics. Does his mother ever regret trading their waterfront home for this? Every day at that house brought different patterns of wind and waves on the river, different reflections of sun and clouds. In the summer, boats motoring