WELCOME TO FORAYS INTO FICTION AND POETRY

Welcome to my creative writing blog site on Blogger. Herein you can find and read some stories, if you will. Four of them have been published in online or print journals. 

This is a primitive site for these kinds of works. To find them, you need to go to the right-side navigation bar to find post months and click on them. Then you can find within the months one or more stories. 

Poetry is also posted here. There is some juvenilia--poems written in my youth. Be kind as you read them!

Anyway, welcome to my site. Read, and if you will, post comments. I would love to read what you think.

IN MEMORIAM FRANCIS JOSEPH MCGUINN

 IN MEMORIAM FRANCIS JOSEPH MCGUINN

I had travelled from Texas to my home town to visit my family for the Christmas holidays. My wife spending the Christmas holidays with her ailing mother, it was just me this time. After driving my grandmother home to her apartment on Broadway, I decided to take a trip down memory lane. I shifted the transmission into Drive and eased out into the wide four lanes of Broadway. Fog had stolen over the area, sneaking up the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River, crouching and springing over the row of nursing homes on the east side of the street, and settling over the entire cityscape. Sound was muffled in the fog tonight.

   There should have been snow on the street, but what little the city had received a few days earlier had melted by now, the fog painting the whole scene with a ghostly greyness enveloping all that stood up in it. It didn’t seem like a night; it was like a hazy dream that I was driving through.

  You travel south on Broadway to Loughborough, where you turn right and climb its long hill west for six blocks until you reach Michigan Avenue. Here you are near the heart of my old stomping-grounds. I had walked all of these streets many nights during my adolescent and teen years and had seen many things happen that had left indelible marks in my memory, stored deep in cells somewhere in my brain. Some of these memories I wished I could forget, but nevertheless memories which I reveled in at times like now, in a gray and ghostly December. “…in a deep and dark December, I am alone,” a snatch of an old song that described both the present moment and the general mood of my teenage years.

A block ahead, at the crest of the hill, I saw the stop sign across from the corner variety store on the right. One more block and I would come to my old junior high school. They call it a “middle school” these days, and I guess it was then, the middle of puberty between childhood and “maturing” in high school. But tonight the school wasn’t my destination. I was in my old neighborhood, and the center of my old neighborhood lay down Michigan Avenue to the south. So I turned left and drove slowly down the silent street, past the brick flats and single-family frame houses staring vacantly with unblinking yellow eyes in the stark glare of mercury-vapor street lights arching over the street. I met no traffic, nor was I followed by any. The street was mine tonight.

Up ahead, just two blocks past the first stop sign, I could see it. Its darkened marquee still hung out over the sidewalk, protecting its ticket window. As I eased the car down the street, more of it came into view in the thin fog. Now I could read the letters up on the marquee, in bold yellow letters within a red rectangle surrounded by an oblong of a red and yellow sunburst: MICHIGAN. Once upon a time the marquee was aflame with neon lights. No more. Finding a vacant space by the curb at the end of the block, across the street from the theater, I pulled in silently and parked. I was now across the street from the “show,” the Michigan Show, as we called it. This was the sole reason that I had driven through the old neighborhood. I was only a block and a half from the house where I grew up, over one block west, but tonight coming home meant coming to the Michigan Show.            

I pushed the gear shift into Park and turned off the headlights. I turned in my seat to get a good view of the theater. I thought my parents might wonder why I’m late getting back, but I’ve got to spend some time here tonight. Now I was really able to see the old building, whose every fault lay exposed in the foggy amber glare of the mercury vapor street light. Funny, I thought, they never had those lights when I was growing up. Whatever became of those concrete lamp posts topped with globes, their golden lights glowing warm? Whatever became of a lot of things?

 The glass-enclosed playbills had been boarded up, one pair on each side of the two sets of double doors that guard the ticket window in the center, like silent sentinels. Those playbills—so colorful each week, with posters of the current attractions and the coming attractions. The glass on the aluminum-framed enclosures protecting the posters had long since been broken by vandals. And on the plywood boards were the new playbills proclaiming “Foursquare Gospel Church of God in Christ Fellowship,” painted in uneven red letters.

I looked up and down Michigan Avenue to see if any cars were coming. I wanted this moment to be all mine, the spell to be unbroken. I turned off the engine and slid out of the car, crossing the wet street, breathing the heavy mist tinged with the faint odor of industrial pollution from the chemical plant down on Broadway several blocks away. Two fuzzy headlights now approached up the gentle slope of Michigan from the south, resolving themselves into the dark shape of a slow-moving car. I turned my back to the street, hunched up, and waited for the car to pass. As it went by, its tires hissed as they sprayed up the moisture from the pavement. Then I became aware of the sound of brakes and the red of brake lights. The driver shifted into reverse and backed up, gears whining, until the car slid into the curb next to me. It was a police car. The cop rolled down his passenger window and called me over. When I got there, hands in my pockets, he asked me, “What’s your business here?” 

The cop was about my age, and he didn’t look threatening. Nevertheless, I put on my respectful face. “Well, sir,” I said, “I’m visiting from Texas. I grew up in this neighborhood, and I’ve come back to my local theater to have a look. This is where we all went on weekends. I just wanted to reminisce, that’s all.” 

Satisfied by my answer, he warned me about the neighborhood. “This neighborhood isn’t like it was when you were young. There’s trouble on the streets. Be careful, and don’t stay too long.” 

I thanked him for the warning, and he pulled away onto the street and proceeded slowly north. Funny, I thought, I had a couple of encounters with the police when I was a teenager. They didn’t go nearly so well.

Hands in pockets, I stood under the marquee, my breath creating transitory puffs of steam, my nose growing cold. I put my face as close to the cold glass of the door as I could without touching it, and peered inside. It was too dark to make anything out. I walked towards the north, or left, of the face of the show, which joined the old variety store, dark now also, as were the two other business establishments which were part of this complex dominated by the old theater on the corner. I had never noticed before, in all the times that I stood outside in line to buy tickets as an adolescent, how the Michigan was tiled with large rectangular rose-beige panels, perhaps three feet by four feet, whereas the other smaller establishments presented dark red brick fronts. It occurred to me then that the Michigan shared the same characteristics as some bathrooms and showers I had seen before.

I stared at the boarded-over playbill, entranced. As an adolescent and teenager, I had walked the block and half on Friday nights to the show and witnessed teenage events that now resided in my long-term memory. Like the night after the show was over that two teenage girls got into a fight in front of the theater, pulling hair, punching and kicking each other. The alpha female threw her opponent to the concrete pavement and jumped on her mid-section, grabbing her hair and pounding her head into the pavement…until she was pulled off by a few onlookers. The scene made my stomach turn. Those were the days when boys and girls got into fist fights and walked away rather than pulling out guns and shooting each other. 

There was one night when violence broke out inside during the movie. That was when I first heard of Frankie McGuinn, known in the neighborhood as Frankie Mac. If the neighborhood toughs had a club, Frankie would have been President. What we all witnessed that night was my introduction to Frankie Mac, when I beheld his behavior from afar. Later I would witness it personally. This particular Friday night I was there with my best friend Denny for a double feature with cartoons in between. The first movie was about a half hour into it when we heard a disturbance behind us in the lobby. Next thing we knew, someone was running in the dark down the left-side aisle, whipping something around in the air. He went around the front aisle, right under the screen, and found someone he was looking for. There was a ruckus, and that someone rose up from his seat and pushed the one with what looked like a chain and ran up the right-side aisle, followed by the one with the chain. By this time the theater manager and an employee had grabbed the one with the chain and tossed  him out of the theater onto the sidewalk. 

Denny and I got out of our seats and went back to the lobby, where there was a crowd of boys standing outside of the men’s restroom. We pushed our way through it to see a teen with a red chain mark slanted across his face, standing inside the restroom, smoking a cigarette. I didn’t know who he was, but I found out later he was Johnny Downs, one of the neighborhood toughs. He drew on his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke. Speaking through the smoke, he intoned, “Frankie McGuinn is a dead man.” Everyone in the small crowd there said that Frankie was drunk. He obviously had some kind of vendetta with Johnny and sought him out at the Michigan Show. We heard a week later that Johnny had caught up with Frankie and beat the crap out of him.

Then a few weeks later I had my first close encounter with Frankie Mac. One Friday night my best friend Denny and I were in the diner down on Ivory Street playing on the pinball machine, located at the end of the long room across from the end of the counter. The bathrooms were just past the pinball machine. This evening there were perhaps seven customers in the diner, sitting at the counter and at one or two of the small square tables by the windows. Denny was standing next to me mesmerized by the action of the steel ball, the flashing lights, and the ringing bells. I was into a good game, on the third ball, when I heard the outside door whoosh open and the bell mounted on its top frame ring. New customers. Next thing I knew three legendary neighborhood toughs that I had only seen from afar at the Michigan Show came sauntering over to the pinball machine. It was Frankie McGuinn and two sidekicks, clothed in black leather motorcycle jackets, decorated with zippered pockets and metal studs. They headed for the restrooms at the back of the diner.

After they finished their business, they came out. As they neared the pinball machine and me, Denny mumbled something about getting a cherry Coke and made his way hurriedly to the counter. Soon I realized that Frankie was standing just off my left shoulder, along with one of his two buddies. The other stood off my right shoulder. All were looking at the pinball machine and the ball I was manuevering around the layout. I nervously turned my attention back to the game, just in time to flip the ball before it rolled through the center and out of play. My face flushed, the strength fled from my legs and arms, and my heart pounded in my chest. My stomach knotted itself up, expecting a blow. From what I had heard from Denny, Frankie wouldn’t just stand around and watch a pinball game. Losing my concentration, I watched the third ball roll unchallenged through the gate and out of play.

Frankie pulled out a cigarette and asked me, more like commanded me, “Got a light?” “Sorry,” I squeaked, “I don’t have one.” Fortunately one of his buddies had a matchbook and gave it to him. He lit up, hands cupped over the match, and blew it out with his first puff of smoke. Cool, I thought. Smoke drifting up in his face made his left eye close, and he cocked his head to the right, dragging long on his cigarette thoughtfully. Cool, I thought. But I was getting more nervous the longer he stood there looking at the display. Frankie looked at the score—837 at the time—and then at me, as I launched ball four up the chute. “What ball?” he asked.

“Third. No, I mean fourth. That was the third. This is the fourth. This one.” My own coolness had vanished by this time.

“How much for a free game?” He dragged deeply, and the cigarette went erect and glowed red. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and absent-mindedly plucked a tobacco grain from his lower lip. Tough guys don’t smoke filter cigarettes; this one was probably a Camel or Lucky Strike. Then he exhaled, as if he were a storied dragon.

“1200 points,” I squeaked.

“Betcha don’t make it,” he said casually, his arms now crossed on his chest, the metal studs on his jacket flinging the light in my face.

“Huh,” I grunted, perhaps too strongly, for I only meant “You’re so right.”

“What?” he challenged, one eyebrow arching as a shadow crossed his face. His black greased pompadour shone in the fluorescent light, and his arms dropped down to his sides.

“You’re probably right, “ I gasped, and watched helplessly as the fourth ball sped through the space between the flippers. 949.

He dragged long again, and blew the smoke in my face as I launched the final ball. “Hey motherfucker,” he said, “you like that?”

His buddies chuckled. The one standing off my right shoulder elbowed me.

My whole body was tensing up, awaiting the imminent blow. I swallowed and said timidly, “It’s okay.” Where Is Denny?

“Hey Frankie,” his other buddy called from the counter, where he had gone to look at the menul. “Let’s go, man. Ain’t nothing here for us. C’mon, man!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie sighed. He relaxed some, then gathered his spirit once more, and turning to me, tilting his head back, snarled, “Hey, dipshit, you better watch your mouth; one of these days you gonna get it smashed in real good, you hear?” He sneered into my amazed face and feinted a slap. My eyes widened like saucers, and I flinched away, raising my left elbow to ward off the blow. Smirking, he turned to go. I could hear the door of the diner open and the street sounds rush in as they left. I let out my breath and returned to the pinball machine in time to watch the last ball drop down the center between the stationary flippers. 999. Game over.

Frankie was right. I didn’t make it to 1200.

Denny came back, a glass of cherry Coke in his hands. “Wanna sip?” he asked.

“You son of a bitch,” I said between gritted teeth. “Where were you?”

The little bastard had left me alone when he saw Frankie and his buddies come in. He knew the limits of his own private world, and Frankie was beyond them in another, darker world. Most adults ultimately were powerless before Denny because their flaw was adult mercy. They could discipline you, but they couldn’t break your spirit. They wouldn’t beat the living daylights out of you or worse yet, cut you into slices. They would stop just short of cruelty. Frankie and the other predators in the neighborhood wouldn’t stop short, however. They were the real rulers of the night jungle, and guys like Denny and me quailed before them, like I had just done. Denny wasn’t a predator; he was more a foraging rodent, darting back and forth on the forest floor, in search of weaker animals, annoying and stealing from the larger animals, and staying out of the way of the predators. He was teaching me the ways of the rodent also, preparing me for survival in the jungle that is the world of the working-class teen on the block. I wasn’t aware of this back in the day, of course. What I was aware of on that occasion, as well as on one other occasion later, was one fact, a fact that brought him back down to my level. He might have been my mentor, but he was a coward. He knew it, and I knew it. And he knew that I knew it. It was fun to be with Denny, so long as we didn’t get caught being rodents. But I couldn’t count on him as a friend when I needed a defender. He was a coward, and on this occasion, I was mad at him.

Again I said, “Where were you?”

“Getting you a Coke, of course,” he smiled sheepishly, his eyes sparkling. You could never stay mad at Denny for long. And I didn’t. But that wasn’t the only time that Denny left me in the lurch with Frankie McGuinn.

A few weeks later we were at the Michigan Show again on a Friday night. Every Friday and Saturday night at the Michigan Show pre-teens and teens practiced politics. Boys and girls whose hormones were backed up all week in school broke the dams on weekend nights at the show. They bartered, they dealt, and they negotiated. Were the negotiations simply long-standing tradition, or were they the result of instinct? Did my older sister’s generation do the same thing as mine? 

The kids rarely came to the show as couples; instead, they arrived in same-sex pairs or packs and spent the pre-movie time parading back and forth between their seats and the lobby or bathrooms off the lobby—girls usually down front and boys usually in the back section. This custom allowed the girls to see and be seen, as the boys usually splayed out near the back of the section, sometimes even behind the wide aisle that stretched across the show about halfway down.

During pre-movie time the Michigan was a riot of noise. The girls down front were screechingly loud, glancing back every once in a while and giggling. Meanwhile, the boys in the back were laughing and telling coarse jokes, often at the expense of the girls making their way up the aisles toward the lobby. The boys would watch the parade and make their choices, those who wanted to snuggle up with a girl, that is. Not all of the boys did. Usually the choices were the results of the rumors heard at school during the week. This girl is a dog; that girl is cute; this girl made out with a boy in the hall; that girl has a boyfriend, that girl puts out, etc. Some of the rumors were true, but most of them probably weren’t. 

Then, sometime after the previews started, either a boy would send his emissary down to set him up to moving down to “sit with” her, or a girl would send up her friend to invite a particular boy to come down to sit with her. I always enjoyed being an emissary because it was easier for me to scout out my own girls than it was to bargain directly.

Sometimes we would go down front or wherever the girls sat and sit in the row directly behind the one or two girls we were interested in. We would make our presence known by putting our feet or knees up on the back of their seats and pushing to get their attention. This action always got results, though sometimes not good ones. A conversation might go like the following:

Girl: “Hey, quit pushing on my seat back!”

Boy: “I didn’t push on your seat!”

Girl: “Yes, you did. Now stop it.” But she giggles. That’s a good sign.

Boy, after screwing up the courage to get to the point of the interaction: “Are you in Miss Underwood’s class?” Mental face slap: ouch, she’s in my class.

Girl: “No, I’m in Miss Schute’s class. You know that, because you’re in my class!” She probably knows what’s coming next.

Boy, about to lay his cards on the table: “Oh, sorry.” Screwing up his courage, “Hey, can I sit with you?”

And now the wait. How long before she answers? Will she? Won’t she? Why is she talking to her friend? To get advice? To see if the two boys behind them can come up to sit with them? 

I was successful this Friday night, sitting behind a girl in my 8th grade class, who was sitting with a couple of her friends. Negotiations were successful, and soon I was sitting with Angela Andrews, a buxom blonde with a riot of frizzed hair. I screwed up my courage and put my arm around her—success!—and we went to town. What was the movie? Who cared? We were getting it on well. Denny was sitting next to me, whispering obscene comments. He didn’t have a girl to sit with, so he concentrated on me and what Angela and I were doing. 

When the movie was over, I found out that Angela lived just a block north and one over from where I lived. I offered to walk her home from the show. The three of us left and walked two blocks toward her street. After we turned the corner north, Angela told me she lived about half a block north. Fine, I thought, not a long walk, as we walked, arms around each other’s waists. I would sneak my arm up a little higher to graze her breast and get a charge. She never pushed it down. Denny walked behind us, whistling and mumbling more obscene comments about us. 

Just then a car pulled in to the curb next to us, and we heard the sounds of talk from inside the car. I looked off to the side and saw that it was occupied by four teenage boys, and from the sounds of their talk, they had all been drinking. The back passenger door opened, and out popped one of the boys. I recognized the black leather jacket and studs. It was Frankie Mac. As he came up to Angela and me, we stopped and separated from each other. He came over and pushed me out of the way and grabbed Angela, fumbling for the buttons on her blouse. “I wanna see what you got under there,” he said. She pushed him away, saying “Stop! Get off me!” Surprised at this rebuff, he staggered and regained his composure. Then he looked at me and came over. He said, “Hey, don’t I know you? Gimme a cigarette.” Standing there alone before Frankie, Angela off to one side and Denny—where was Denny?—I replied, “I don’t have any cigarettes. Sorry.” 

Frankie didn’t like my answer. He rared back his arm and said, “Why, you little motherfu—” when one of his friends caught him in a bear hug from behind and said, “C’mon, Frankie, don’t bother the kid. Let’s go.” He pulled Frankie back into the car, all the while Frankie fixing me with a glare. The car sped off. I turned around to see Denny standing back about ten feet. “Where the hell were you?” I said. 

“Sorry, buddy. We’re no match for Frankie,” he answered. And that was that.

The groove that Angela and I were getting on was spoiled. I wasn’t her knight in shining armor. When we got to Angela’s house, her disappointment and disapproval showed on her face. We said a tepid goodnight and parted. Denny and I disappeared into the night, still shaking from our encounter with Frankie Mac. 

Later in the summer of that year, after graduating from 8th grade, I was heading home from the corner store at the end of the block when a police car slowed down and pulled to the curb. The officer leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. He said, “Hey kid, come over here a minute. I want to talk to you.” Oh my God, I thought, what have I done? Am I in trouble? I did as commanded and walked over to the car. The policeman said, “Do you know where Frankie McGuinn is? Have you seen him?” 

Puzzled, I answered, “No, sir. I don’t. I haven’t seen him in a long time. I don’t even know where he lives.”

“We know you hang out with the bunch he hangs out with, so you must know.”

“What?” I said, “I don’t hang out with him or anyone else in his crowd.”

“Are you sure? You look like one of those guys.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Frankie Mac is bad news, and I don’t want any part of him. I haven’t seen him, and I won’t see him.”

The officer glared at me, then softened. “OK, kid, sorry to bother you. Stay away from Frankie and those guys he bums around with. He’s going down one of these days.”

“I will, sir. Don’t worry about me,” I said.

The officer then said, “OK, kid, have a nice day,” and he put his car in gear and sped away. I was tempted to make a parting shot as the car sped away, but I thought better of it. I didn’t want to “go down” like Frankie Mac.

Snapping out of my reverie in front of the Michigan Show, I looked at my watch and saw how late it was. I crossed the street to my parked car and drove back to my parents’ house, all the while pondering those incidents with Frankie Mac.

Somehow I survived my adolescence and teenage years, went off to college, got married, went to grad school, got a good job, and had children. However, despite the many experiences we had in the family through the years, I never forgot about Frankie Mac and my encounters with him. I sometimes wondered what happened to him.

I got my answer yesterday.

I picked up the daily paper on the front lawn and brought it in to the kitchen table to read while I ate my breakfast. My wife having passed away from cancer six months ago, I was still not used to eating meals alone. The paper, or any reading material, helped to pass the time while eating, forgetting my loneliness for a while. As I turned to page 3 of the paper, I noticed a short article on the execution of a convicted murderer at the state prison. Appeals exhausted, convict is executed, said the headline. Scanning the first paragraph before turning the page to the sports section, my eyes were arrested by the name: “Francis Joseph McGuinn, 57….” Frankie Mac? Surely this was a coincidence, and so I read the article. It turned out that Francis McGuinn was convicted following a string of several robberies and assaults. He was sentenced to fifteen years in prison at the age of 19 as a “persistent offender.” According to the newspaper account, almost from the beginning of his sentence he was raped repeatedly. Two years later he was charged with the murder of an inmate—who was stabbed over 50 times—and his sentence was lengthened to life without parole. Fifteen years later he took part in the stabbing death of another inmate, for which he received the death sentence. The past twenty years his attorney had been filing petitions for clemency, but the last petition had been denied, as had all the others, a week before, and the execution was scheduled. He was executed yesterday, and his wife witnessed the execution. How did he get married while in prison? I wondered.

Reading this news made me profoundly sad. I wondered how Frankie was raised to be such a violent person with no conscience. Why did he become an alcoholic as a teen? What happened at home? And when he went to prison what a horrible discovery that he was no longer a feared predator but had become the prey. Why did he murder two inmates? With a different life he could have been a normal person with a loving family, maybe even a professional of some kind. And then I thought how close I had come to being part of his solar system, as that cop had thought. I knew guys who knew Frankie. Hanging around with Denny was Step One along that road. I am glad that I didn’t take any further steps. 

So, Francis Joseph McGuinn, I will never know the answers to my questions, but I will remember you as one of the boys who made it out of the hood but went the wrong way.

Goodbye Sydney, published in Personal Bests Journal, Issue 5, Winter 2022, pp. 106-124.

Goodbye Sydney

Bill shocked awake mind-foggy, lying in bed next to his wife Olivia. That is, he thought he was lying next to his Livvy. When he raised his head off the pillow and looked over his shoulder, her side of the bed was empty. Where was she? Was she gone? Had she left him? Had she died? An overwhelming panic afflicted him. ‘Livvy? Livvy? Where are you? Livvy!’ He shouted louder, ‘Livvy! Livvy!’

Down the hallway and into the bedroom Olivia came rushing. ‘Yes, Bill, I’m here, Bill. Right here,’ she soothed, sitting on the side of the bed and taking his hand in hers. ‘There, there.’

Hearing her voice come through his muddled brain and seeing her settled him. ‘I thought I’d lost you. I thought I was alone,’ he cried.

‘I’m right here, honey,’ Livvy said. ‘As always, for the last sixty-four years.’ Olivia Ivey was 84 years old, and her husband Bill was 86. Though she had slowed down physically and was beginning to slow mentally, she was still able to run the household and do most of the chores herself. For the past three years she had taken on the additional task of caring for her husband, now well into dementia and rounding the bend toward Alzheimer’s. Bill was slow in getting out of bed, slow in dressing, slow in moving, and slow of speech, searching sometimes for words hiding in the corners of his mind, as they were now.

‘Let’s get you dressed and ready for breakfast,’ she said, patting his arm. She helped her husband out of bed and over to the upholstered chair across the bedroom, supporting him with an arm through his arm. She eased him down into the chair and let out a sigh as she straightened up slowly to avoid aggravating her resident sciatica. She headed over to Bill’s dresser to fetch a clean pair of underwear, a t-shirt, and his pajama pants. Bill always slept in satin sleep shorts, which she now gripped by the waist band to pull them off. This was the task that she hated most—removing those shorts and exposing his crotch, which long ago had lost any attraction for her and now disgusted her. She raised him up to stand and pulled his sleep shorts down to his feet, having him step out of them. Telling him to raise one leg, then the other, she tugged the underpants up his legs until they reached his knees, then she pulled them up to his waist, at last covering the sight of his crotch. She helped him back down to the chair so that she could start the process over, this time with his pajama bottoms. After that struggle was over, she had him raise his skinny arms, wrinkled and striated, to put on his t-shirt. Finally she put on his house slippers. She had been performing this morning task for the past six months as Bill’s body progressively weakened, even while her own strength was diminishing. She didn’t know how much longer she could do this.

Olivia then guided Bill down the hallway toward the kitchen. His shuffling house shoes hissed, his head arced toward the floor. ‘Dust bunnies, Livvy,’ he said. ‘Gotta take care of them dust bunnies today.’ Having heard this comment every day since she cleaned house last week, she said, ‘Yes, dear, I know. I will.’ Sighing, she remembered an old song from decades ago: “How terribly strange to be seventy.” Except they were in their eighties.

Feet don’t move fast enough what a bitch dust bunnies where am I going? Olivia Livvy Livvy Liv live it up up in the air up yours yours mine ours hours why won’t my body do what I want it to the kitchen table cable able Mabel stop stop it

‘Stop it!’ Bill cried as he was lowered to his chair at the table.

‘Stop what, dear?’ Olivia asked. ‘I haven’t been doing anything but helping you to the table for breakfast. Like I do every morning, thank you very much!’ It’s too early in the morning to be irritated, she thought, and determined to be even-tempered for the rest of the day.

On this cool November morning Olivia thought to make oatmeal or Cream of Wheat for breakfast, as either of them would go down easier for Bill than a bready or meaty breakfast. Opening the pantry door across the room from the small nook table, she located both the oatmeal and the Cream of Wheat. ‘What do you feel like having for breakfast this morning, Bill?’ she almost shouted, as Bill had grown hard of hearing.

‘What? What’s that?’ Bill replied.

‘I said, what do you want for breakfast, Bill? Oatmeal or Cream of Wheat?’

‘What? What did you say?’ Bill shouted.

‘Oh, never mind,’ Olivia answered. ‘We’ll have Cream of Wheat.’

‘Okay,’ Bill said, not knowing what he was okaying.

Olivia fixed the Cream of Wheat on the stove, taking care to keep it from boiling over. She spooned it into two bowls, then put a pat of butter and a spoonful of brown sugar on top. Taking care not to burn herself on the steaming bowls, she brought them over to the table and sat them down.

Bill watched Livvy’s hands as she gently set down his bowl of Cream of Wheat. ‘What’s this?’ he said, frowning.

‘Cream of Wheat, dear, just what you wanted.’

‘I didn’t say I wanted Cream of Wheat.’

Olivia took in a breath and let it out slowly. Sighing, she said, ‘Well, that’s what you said you wanted. And that’s what you get!’ She couldn’t believe that she raised her voice. She broke Dr. Carter’s top rule for dealing with dementia patients. ‘Don’t raise your voice, no matter how frustrated you get. He can’t help it.’

Bill gazed at his bowl of Cream of Wheat for a few seconds, then slowly lifted his spoon, hand trembling. He dipped the spoon into the bowl, then raised a spoonful of steaming cereal to his lips, instantly burning them. ‘God damn it! It’s too hot!’ he screamed, flicking the spoon of Cream of Wheat to the wall, where the cereal stuck and then began a slow crawl down toward the baseboard, the spoon rattling on the tiled floor.

This was too much for Olivia. ‘You son of a—! You ingrate! I fix breakfast for you, and you throw it away! Fine! Eat it or not. I’m not hungry!’ She rose up from her chair and left the table, rushing back to the bedroom. She slammed the door and lay down on the bed to cry angry tears.

Bill continued to sit at the table. He gazed at the bowl of Cream of Wheat sitting before him, steam billowing up. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

…

Bill had been active much of his life, playing football and baseball in high school and baseball in college. A college Biology professor, he had led field trips with students at home and abroad. During his adult life he had at various times played handball, racquetball, tennis, softball, and basketball, usually with colleagues from the university. Later in life he and Olivia took dance lessons and joined dance clubs, and even traveled to dance conventions. Until six years ago he went to the local YMCA with Olivia three times a week for Silver Sneakers classes to keep fit. They had retired from dancing and the Y when their arthritis and chronic pains forced them to give up all physical activity. That loss signaled the onset of dementia in Bill. Was giving up exercises the cause of his dementia, or had the exercise kept it at bay? The answer was moot: he had descended into the fog of dementia not long after stopping all physical activity. Olivia had fared better mentally, although she had gained some weight, which aggravated her joint and muscle pains. Caring for Bill and doing the chores around the house, as well as shopping for groceries, were all the physical activities she performed. Her sense of responsibility and urgency kept her mind sharp and on task. Watching her husband of sixty-four years slowly lose his mind and personality grieved her. Before the onset, he was even-tempered and mild, gladly helping out around the house and enjoying the company of friends and family, especially of his grandchildren. But now his friends who survived into their 80’s were all dealing with their own physical and mental issues, and the change in his personality alienated even his children and grandchildren, who no longer wanted to be around him. Olivia was feeling the isolation as their world closed in around them. Still, she soldiered on, as there was no viable alternative at present. However, the thought of assisted living was rising on the horizon. She didn’t know how long it would be until it fully rose, and she didn’t know if both of them would need assistance at that time. They would face that decision when it became necessary.

…

Bill rose from the breakfast table after watching the Cream of Wheat cool and thicken. Snapping out of muddled nothingness, he slowly raised himself from his chair and shuffled toward the living room. Time to go to work. Got a 9:30 lab, he thought. He opened the front door and stepped out on the porch, taking care to walk down the five steps crab-like, one side step at a time. Reaching the sidewalk, he looked left, then right, and decided to head to the right, to go to his office. Moving at a snail’s pace, he put one foot in front of the other until he reached the end of the block. At the intersection he didn’t think to look either way as he shuffled across the curb into the street. Fortunately, this was a quiet neighborhood, and everyone who worked had already left.

Stepping up over the curb to the next block, Bill moved down the sidewalk passing the homes. When he reached a large two-story brick home, he paused and gazed at its front. Yes, this is the Science Building, he thought, and he shuffled up to its porch and opened the outside door. The front door was locked, though, so he thought he must be at the back service entrance. He went around the side of the house to the back yard, where he saw an arrangement of four Adirondack chairs around a fire pit. This was his office, he thought, since as chairman of the department he had a meeting table with chairs around it. He sat down heavily into one of the chairs. He had some time to collect his thoughts before he needed to go down to the lab.

…

Later at home, while still in the bedroom, Olivia heard the phone ring in the kitchen. They were perhaps the last family on the block, perhaps in the whole neighborhood, to have a landline, and they paid AT&T handsomely for it every month. Now who could that be? She thought. She knew that Bill wouldn’t answer it, so she got up off the bed and went down the hall to the kitchen. She picked up the phone from the wall and said ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs. Ivey? Is it Olivia?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Yes, this is she.’ Olivia always used proper grammar.

‘This is Susan Hartley from up the street, at 1235 Hampton.’

‘Yes, Mrs. Hartley.’ Olivia always practiced proper social graces. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I just got home from Curves, and well…uh…I found your husband sitting in our back yard in a daze. He’s in his pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. It’s kind of chilly, but he’s not wanting to leave. Can you come get him, please?’

‘Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Hartley,’ Olivia said. Yes, of course. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

And Olivia was there in a few minutes, having rushed in a fast walk. She apologized to Mrs. Hartley again. It took some convincing for Bill to understand that he was not in his office, but soon she was able to get him back home. ‘You shouldn’t have been out like that in this cool weather, Bill,’ she said. ‘You’ll catch your death of a cold.’ She was ashamed to think that might be a good thing.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Bill, shivering and ignoring her. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

…

Olivia was successful in getting Bill to eat a bowl of Cream of Wheat—‘My favorite,’ he said, which he ate with no memory of the fit he threw earlier. After breakfast, Olivia having gone to the laundry room to start the weekly wash, Bill raised himself up slowly from the breakfast table chair and ambled to the living room to sit in the recliner. He plopped down heavily into the chair and sighed, then stared off into the distance.

Hi doctor ivey I wonder if you have a few minutes to spare I am having a problem with this chapter sure sure, have a seat she sits in the chair on the side of the desk she hikes her skirt up to mid-thigh leans forward showing off the promise of her cleavage in her V-necked sweater she reaches down to her backpack fully displays that cleavage I gaze at the sight plump white plums she finds her textbook raises her head meets my gaze I look away embarrassed to be caught looking she smiles those eyes those big brown eyes composure stiff upper lip stiff stiffy composure what’s the problem kingdom phylum class mammalia mammary mammy got it thank you see you in class bending book back in bag great view thank you rise up shoulder pat bye olivia

Olivia walked down the hall lugging a basket of laundry. Seeing that Bill wasn’t at the kitchen table, she called out, ‘Bill? Bill? Where are you, hon?’ Hearing no answer she dropped the laundry basket on the kitchen floor and looked around, muttering, ‘Now where has he got off to? I hope you haven’t left again.’ Coming into the living room, she found Bill sitting in the recliner, staring off into the distance, a slight smile on his face. ‘So there you are, Bill,’ she said. He didn’t respond or react. She raised her voice. ‘Bill? Bill!’ He snapped out of his reverie and gazed into her face.

‘Oh, hi, Olivia,’ he said, a look of admiration on his face. He rarely called her Olivia, preferring the pet name Livvy. She wondered what he had been thinking. If she only knew, she would have become livid. It was a different time, a different place, and she wasn’t that girl anymore.

…

There were no further incidents around the house for two days. However, during that time Olivia noticed Bill becoming more confused. Once he addressed her as Mom, and once he called her Sydney, a name she’d never heard before. On the second day he said he wanted to call and talk to their son Miles. Miles was stillborn sixty years before, a tragic loss for a young couple in their mid-20’s expecting their first child. They had spent the last three months of her pregnancy studying boy and girl names, discussing them, even having arguments over them. Finally they settled on Miles for a boy and Shelley for a girl. That was back when they wouldn’t know the gender of the baby until it was born. They were ready with names, but not ready for the loss.

Olivia tried to head off Bill’s insistence that he call his son, and he snapped, ‘I’ll call my son if I want to!’ She finally calmed him down by telling him that they had lost Miles’ phone number and would have to wait until he called them. ‘All right,’ Bill said. ‘He never calls. He’d better soon.’ Olivia knew that he would forget about Miles and this incident within seconds as his mind moved on to other thoughts.

Bill’s confusion crossed a line later on that day, when Olivia walked by the open front bathroom door and saw him on his knees before the toilet bowl, head down inside it, apparently lapping up water. She went into the bathroom, and as she approached she saw that the bowl was yellow with urine, and several small turds were floating in the water. Bill was trying to mouth one. ‘Bill!’ she screamed. ‘What are you doing?’

He raised his head up from the bowl, water dripping off his chin. ‘I’m bobbing for apples, Livvy. I almost got one!’ Olivia rushed over to Bill and pulled him up from the floor, Bill all the while protesting, ‘I need to get an apple, then I’ll win a prize!’

‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,’ she cried. ‘What am I to do with you?’ She guided him over to the sink, where she grabbed a wash rag and soaped it good, wiping it across his face. He protested like a child who had eaten a mud pie. ‘Stop that! Don’t do that!’ After a struggle she finished cleaning his face, then walked him down the hall to the bedroom, where she laid him down on the bed. ‘Now you rest for a while, dear,’ she soothed. She turned on the ceiling fan to cool the room. ‘Rest for a good long time.’ Then she went down the hallway to the living room and collapsed on the sofa, tears watering her eyes. ‘How much more of this can I take?’ she cried.

In the bedroom, lying on his back, Bill went into a dream, swirling around from the edges of his mind.

room 419 she climbs up on me naked blonde hair falling down in front of her shoulders breasts hanging low lowering to kiss kiss kiss me taking my head in her hands sydney you are so beautiful moving to meet her movement you are my handsome man dr. ivey she raises up meeting my motion and her shoulder-length brown hair bounces to the rhythm of her motion room 419 sydney I— olivia livvy I love you so much—

Hearing Bill speaking out loud, Livvy had come to the bedroom to see what was going on. Was he asleep? Was he just talking out loud? Finding his eyes closed, ‘What?’ Livvy said, her face now close to his. She shook him. ‘Wake up, Bill.’ She had arrived soon enough to hear what sounded like Sidney, then Olivia, then Livvy. What was up with that? ‘You were having a dream, Bill. But you were talking out loud.’ His eyes were glazed as he drifted up to consciousness. Intrigued, she thought to quiz him about the dream. ‘What was your dream about, dear?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember,’ Bill answered evasively.

During the years that Bill was teaching Olivia had suspected him of going too far with female students. As he had with her early on when he was a graduate teaching assistant. Who wouldn’t? He was a handsome young man then, with that riot of dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes, and he remained handsome through his seventies even when his hair had turned silver. Because he had crossed the line with her, she was suspicious of him with other coeds during his career. If he had crossed the line, he had covered his tracks well. Nevertheless, Olivia reminded herself they had stayed together for sixty-four years, so she had tried hard to dismiss these suspicious thoughts over the years. But Sidney? Where did that name come from? Who the heck was he? Perhaps I should pay more attention to what he says to himself from now on. All during these thoughts she had been holding his head in both of her hands, and now she released it and raised herself up. ‘You rest now, dear,’ she said, raising his head and fluffing his pillow, ‘and I’ll come back to check on you at lunch time.’

‘OK,’ Bill whimpered. ‘Thank you.’ He turned over to lie on his side, sighed, and closed his eyes.

…

Two days passed by without incident. It was Thursday, the day the home health nurse usually dropped in to check on Bill. At 9:30 AM the doorbell rang and there were three knocks on the door. ‘Coming, coming,’ shouted Olivia as she hurried to the front door from the kitchen, where she and Bill were finishing breakfast. Olivia opened the door to greet their new home health nurse for the first time. A burly black woman dressed in a pale blue uniform announced herself. ‘Hi. I’m LaWanda Robinson. I’m your new home health nurse from the Visiting Nurses Association.’

‘Oh, hello,’ said Olivia. ‘Do come in; it’s chilly outside.’

‘No problem with me, ma’am. I got’s a lot of flesh on my bones to keep me warm.’ She picked up her black bag and walked inside. Olivia closed the door.

‘And where’s Mr., Mr. William Ivey this morning?’ Nurse Robinson asked, flipping through her paperwork.

‘He’s in the kitchen now, but I can fetch him,’ said Olivia.

‘That would be fine,’ Nurse Robinson said. ‘We can sit at the dining room table for the tests, if it’s all the same to you.’

Olivia showed her to the table, where Robinson set her bag down on the floor and herself in the chair at the same time, the chair creaking in protest. Olivia brought Bill into the dining room. When he saw Robinson, he blurted ‘What’s this? We don’t need maid service.’

Embarrassed, Olivia apologized, but Nurse Robinson said, ‘No offense taken. I guess I do look like I’m dressed as a maid.’

Olivia pulled out a chair and helped Bill sit down on it. She said to him, ‘Bill, honey, this is LaWanda. She’s your new nurse. She’s here to check on you.’

‘And on you, too.’ Robinson added.

‘Oh, really? Well, OK then.’

Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, the nurse recorded Bill’s vitals and asked a series of questions, including a memory test consisting of five items to be recalled every few minutes: person, woman, man, camera, TV. Other questions regarded visual, verbal, reasoning, and mathematical skills. Bill didn’t perform well on most of them, and he couldn’t remember the five words at all when asked at the end of the session. While packing up Bill’s report, Robinson said, ‘I’ll take back this report and file it with the previous ones, and we’ll compare them to see where we are with Bill’s condition. But I would say that there has probably been a drop-off in cognitive function.’ Robinson pulled out a new set of papers and said, ‘Now it’s your turn, Mrs. Ivey.’

Olivia excused herself to take Bill back to the bedroom, where she laid him down to rest, as the tests had tired and frustrated him. ‘There now,’ she said, ‘You just rest, and I’ll be back later to check on you.’ Then she kissed him on the cheek and left for the dining room for her test.

Bill lay on the bed on his back and closed his eyes. After a while he fell into a dream.

room 286 sydney you climb on top long blonde hair partially covers her breasts legs astride my hips slowly moving back and forth fuck me fuck me my sexy professor fuck me hard she rides back and forth up and down back and forth up and down yes yes yes yes oh yes room 286 six six six sex sex sex sydney sydney we must stop this stop this we’ll be caught caught no no no let’s do this forever forever forever forever amen….

Bill woke with a start…and an erection, such as it was for an 86-year-old man. Sydney. Sydney. What about Sydney? Long, long ago. He might have failed the memory test, but this memory from over forty years ago was vivid. Was it real? Or a fantasy? He was so confused. Everything was confusing.

When he opened his eyes he was surprised to see Olivia bending down over him, her head near his, saying, ‘Bill? Bill? Wake up, Bill. You’ve been having a dream. Seeing his eyes opening, she raised up, then saw the bulge in his pajama bottoms. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what have you been dreaming, dear?’ Although he had been having a fantasy, among the last words he had said were out loud: ‘caught caught.’

‘Caught? What does that mean, Bill?’ Olivia asked, eyebrows raised.

‘Nothing. Nothing. I don’t know. It’s all so confusing,’ he said. However, he did know what he had said; it was so vivid.

‘Well, whatever it was, you got a hard-on from it,’ Olivia said, then turned and walked out of the bedroom.

‘Livvy?’ Bill said to her retreating back, ‘I love you. You know that, don’t you?’

Olivia stopped, then turned around. ‘Yes, dear, I know.’ She continued down the hall.

Although Bill had lost nearly all of his short-term memory, he could still remember events from decades ago. He could remember his father teaching him to tie his shoes; supper meals when he spilled his milk frequently while reaching for serving bowls; his first kiss at age 12; the high school baseball game in which he went four for four, hit a home run, and threw out a runner at home from left field. He remembered his first date with Olivia, the cutest girl on campus. He remembered his wedding and honeymoon, the births of his daughter Shelley and son Danny, his first class as a college professor, and the first class in which Sydney Merritt was a student and then became a biology major. This last memory confused and troubled him. Why Sydney Merritt? What was there about her that found root in his deepest memories? He must try to dig through those memories, if only he could.

Unfortunately, since this thought went into his short-term memory, it was lost within seconds.

…

Several days later, in the middle of November, while Olivia was out grocery shopping, Bill left the house thinking that he had an appointment at Dr. Carter’s office, which was of course way across town near the hospitals. And of course he had no appointment. He was wearing sweat pants, a sweat shirt, and his house shoes. When he reached the sidewalk he looked both ways, trying to remember the location of Dr. Carter’s office. He decided to travel south down the street. After walking three blocks he thought he had arrived at Dr. Carter’s office, which was actually a single-story bungalow with a wide front porch and two wicker chairs with a small table in between. He walked up to the porch, sat down in one of the chairs, and waited patiently for his turn to be called.

While sitting on the porch, Bill’s mind descended once again into a dream.

Doctor doctor  give me the news doctor carter harder losing muscle mass my ass losing cognitive skills ills pills man kills assisted living no way I say livvy takes care of me me me Sydney she pops in the office closes door the whore we need to talk let’s take a walk to the parking lot upset I’m pregnant what that can’t be yes it is tested three times I’m pregnant that is terrible what are you gonna do what am I gonna do you did this to me you’re part of this what are you gonna do is it even mine how can you say that of course not there’s no one else since you the last six months I wanted you no boy could ever come close have you thought about abortion thought about it I’m a Catholic and this baby is your baby our baby how about adoption no I’m not going to carry this baby to give it away but there must be something you can do there’s no you in this it’s us this baby is ours yours mine ours well this is a shock and I can’t think right now give me your phone number I’ll call you with a plan the only plan is for you to be with me and our child ok ok let me figure out how to do that oh my god oh my god what can I do about this livvy danny shelley my job shame divorce how could she do this to me think think think yes yes that’s the only way out hello sydney I’ve thought about this and I have a plan meet me at the 7-11 on the west side of town at 7:30 we can talk about our future that’s a strange place to meet I can show you an apartment just outside town that would be perfect and there’s also a road into the trees where I’ve heard the kids go to make out we can go there for some privacy while we’re out and making plans yes I know the place I’ve been there before ok I’ll see you then honey I need to go back to the office I forgot some materials I need for class tomorrow ok got away now to the 7-11 there she is next to a dodge dart hi there come on let’s go ok let’s go park first and get off the road I’d love to we’re there back into the space back into the back seat where there’s more room we talk we plan sure I’ll leave livvy her bright eyes bright with a bright future I take her head in my hands and we kiss deeply deeply I say goodbye sydney you’re hurting me quit squeezing hard she beats me on my chest with her puny fists I wrench her neck she screams kicks I grab her neck with both hands and squeeze squeeze squeeze hard thumbs press her throat she tries to pull my hands away kicking and gurgling soon she’s silent and limp what now what now what now my love lay her across the back seat drive to the construction site west end of town no houses near building apartments on slabs pull around back of one unfinished building large square hole in the ground prepared for slab pull the body gorgeous body out of the car drag her down center of the square hole shovel on ground nearby how fortuitous digging hole breath fogging in the cool night air covered over pat down the mound she’s a foot under dirt maybe tomorrow there will be a concrete pad poured this is the plan stan stan the man musial swingin’ stan the man wait till all cars pass by on the highway lights of the town in the east pitch dark here out back to town to the office then back home free free free I’m free thank you god I’ll be good from now on god if you just protect me goodbye sydney goodbye forever….

‘Who are you? What are you doing on my porch?’ said the woman in the green uniform, just arrived back from her shift at the hospital. ‘Who’s Sidney?’ Then seeing the confusion on Bill’s face, she softened. ‘Where do you live, old man? Let’s get you home.’

In a rare moment of lucidity Bill—who had forgotten why he had walked three blocks from home—recalled his address. ‘Come on, then,’ she said, ‘let’s walk you home. You must be cold in just those sweats.’

Soon they arrived at the Iveys’ house, where Olivia was standing on the porch, hands on her hips, wondering where Bill had gone off to. The nurse introduced herself and explained how she had found Bill. ‘You might think about placing him in assisted living or memory care,’ she said.

Irritated by yet another suggestion of assisted living for Bill, having heard it several times from Dr. Carter, yet ever gracious, Olivia thanked the woman for bringing him home and brought him into the house. Once inside, she said to Bill, ‘Well, that was certainly an adventure, Bill. Am I going to have to take you with me whenever I leave the house from now on?’

Bill appeared not to be listening. His eyes flitted from side to side, and, agitated, he began to shake all over. ‘Are you cold?’ Olivia asked. ‘Let’s get you to the couch, and I’ll put an afghan over  you and make some tea.’

Shuddering, Bill threw off Olivia’s comforting arms. ‘Leave me alone!’ he cried. He swatted wildly at the air in front of him. ‘Leave me alone! I’ve finished with you!’

‘What?’ Olivia said, first thinking that he was speaking to her. ‘What, Bill? What do you mean?’

‘I was finished with you long ago! Stay away from me!’

Standing in front of Bill in his reverie was Sydney, not as alive but as dead, reaching for him with outstretched arms. He flailed his arms to push away the sight, but the vision wouldn’t fade. She said It’s yours, mine, and ours. Together.

Bill collapsed to the floor, hitting his head. ‘Bill! Bill!’ screamed Olivia. ‘Bill, what happened?’ She knelt to the floor and cradled his head in her arms. He had fainted, she thought, or perhaps had died. Hearing him breathe, she laid his head down to the floor and called 9-1-1.

…

‘He’s had a TIA—transient ischemic attack—or a stroke in layman’s terms,’ Dr. Sharma, the neurologist, told Olivia. ‘It seems to have occurred in the left hemisphere, which has resulted in aphasia—difficulty with language—and partial paralysis of his right side. His memory will be further impaired, as you’ve told me he has dementia. I’m thinking the TIA may have pushed him over into Alzheimer’s, or he may already have been there, I’m afraid. He may not recognize you anymore.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Olivia, ‘this is terrible news, just terrible.’

‘I would suggest you contact your primary care physician—Dr. Carter, is that right?—about placement in a memory care rehab facility.’

‘Oh no, I was afraid it would come to this.’

‘I’m sorry, but that seems to be the prognosis. We can hope for a better outcome, of course.’ Then Dr. Sharma patted Bill on his shoulder and also patted Olivia’s hand, then excused himself, leaving Olivia and Bill to face each other and the future.

Bill opened his eyes and saw Olivia sitting next to his bed. ‘Hwer, hwer, hwer a-a-am I?’ he mumbled.

‘You’re in the hospital, Bill dear. You’ve had a stroke. But you’re still alive, and that’s a good thing. I thought I had lost you.’

Uncomprehending at first, Bill finally understood the news, which struck him hard. He closed his eyes and cried, wishing it weren’t true. Then, looking at this woman sitting in a chair next to his bed, he mumbled, ‘Hw-, hw-, who are y-y-you?’

Devastated, Olivia realized that Bill hadn’t recognized her. Nevertheless, she tried to bring back his memory. ‘It’s me, Olivia, your Livvy, honey, Livvy. I’m right here, as I have been for over sixty years.’

Bill scanned her face, dimly recognizing that this woman was someone he had met before. He saw a young, pretty teenaged girl with long brunette hair. ‘Sh- Shelley,’ he blurted, referring to their daughter.

‘No, dear, Shelley is our daughter. I’m Livvy.’

‘Li-, Li-, Liv- Liv-vy,’ Bill tried to repeat. As he studied her face, it morphed into Sydney’s face, Sydney’s eyes bugged out as he choked the life out of her. ‘N-, n-, n-, no!’ he cried. ‘Sor-, sor-, sor-, sorry, syd-, syd-, syd-,’ he cried.

‘What?’ Olivia said. ‘Sid? Sid? Sid who?’ Then it flashed in her mind. ‘Sidney? Sidney? What about Sidney?’

Bill closed his eyes, but the image remained before him in his mind. He shook his head to the left, unable to shake it to the right.

As Olivia looked on at Bill, her mind raced, trying to find meaning in these last references to a Sidney. Sidney who? Was Sidney a friend from years ago? Was he someone Bill knew as a child? Was he someone he met in a class in grad school? Was he on one of Bill’s various teams? What about Sid, or Sidney? As she pondered these questions, Bill began to mumble, struggling for words. She was able to pick out only a few utterances.

‘Sydney…caught…can’t be…how could…you…pregnant…plan….’

Intrigued, Olivia leaned forward and prodded Bill to say more. ‘What, dear? What did you say?’

‘No…no…dirt…dig…dig…free…goodbye…Sydney….’

‘What?’ This string of words didn’t make sense to Olivia. This Sidney—could he be a she? Was Sydney a girl Bill knew before he met her? Did he get her pregnant? He never spoke of affairs he had before they met. But…but…but, remembering her disturbing suspicions years ago about his relationships with female students, what if this Sydney was a student? No, he would never have had an affair with a student. There was too much to risk. Or would he? If he did, and Sydney were pregnant, wouldn’t he have confessed this to her? What about those words dirt, free, dig, and goodbye? What did they mean? Growing disturbed the more she thought about it, she pressed Bill for more information. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered, ‘What about Sydney? What happened with Sydney?’

‘Neck. Pret-ty neck. squeeze. dirt. heav-y. Shov-el. Good-bye syd-ney. free. Liv-vy. Please, go away!’ It was clear that Bill was hallucinating, but the import of this string of laden words struck Olivia. Was Bill hallucinating about a student he had been having an affair with? What did he do? What in heavens did he do to her?

Growing more and more upset, Olivia said, ‘Bill, what did you do to Sydney? What did you do to her?’

‘No…no…no!’ Bill responded.

‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!’ Did Bill kill one of his students? No, no, no. Is this a hallucination? Could she confirm this? She remembered that when Bill had retired eighteen years ago he had brought home several boxes from his office, filled with mementos mostly, as he had donated all of his books to the Biology Club to sell to make money for their activities. She would go home to rummage through those boxes seeking any mentions of a Sydney.

‘Bill, I’m going to leave you now to go home for a while. I’ll be back later,’ she assured him. He seemed to have settled into sleep, the grimace from the stroke frozen on his face.

…

When Olivia arrived home, she dropped her handbag and keys on the kitchen counter and rushed as fast as her body could manage down the hall to Bill’s “office,” his space filled with mementos and treasures from all his past activities: awards, certificates, trophies, travel brochures, and pictures of faculty, staff, and students at the University. Olivia picked up a framed group picture of Bill and several of his students taken on a trip to Costa Rica. Could one of the young women in the photo be this Sydney? Rooting through his desk drawers, she found several grade books. They seemed to be a selection of grade books, not covering the whole range of his career. The earliest were from the 1970’s, starting with 1973-74. She turned the pages looking for student rosters and class grades. No, no Sydney in this grade book. Then she picked up the 1974-75 grade book but didn’t find a Sydney in it. While browsing through the 1975-76 book she found a Sydney Merritt in a Fall 1975 Biology 101 class. This had to be the one; how many Sydneys are there anyway? Flipping through the pages, she found Sydney in his Environmental Biology class in the Spring 1976 semester. Sydney was also a student in his introductory Botany class in the Fall of 1976, and she was in three more of Bill’s upper-division classes the next year. The last class she was in was in the Fall of 1977, an independent study in Botany. Clearly she was a Biology major, and she might have been Bill’s advisee. They would have worked closely together in that independent study project. How closely? Too closely? Did they have an affair? Unthinkable! Bill was a loving husband and a doting father to his children. He wouldn’t risk losing them because of an affair with a student! But then he was also a handsome man then, the reason that she had fallen for him. Obviously female students would have fallen for him, too. But could he have…, no, it was more than unthinkable. He would have confessed to her if he had had an affair, and wouldn’t he have been unable to hide the fact that he had killed that girl? However, that’s what his crazed words seemed to imply. His conscience was finally afflicting him down here near the end.

And then Olivia realized the sham that was their marriage. Her husband was carrying on with a student! He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. He couldn’t stay faithful to his trusting and faithful wife of 64 years. She had been tempted a few times when she was in the work force, as she was an attractive woman, but she always remained true to her first love, her handsome husband. How often the men had hit on her, and how often she had turned them down. Always! What about Bill? If he had an affair with one student, would he have had more affairs? Had he made a mistake with this student, this Sydney? And had he killed her? Killed her to maintain his pretense of a marriage and to protect himself from scandal? He would have lost his teaching position. He would have lost his family, because Olivia would have been devastated. He had to protect himself, and what a price Sydney Merritt had paid!

The more Olivia thought about this end-stage revelation, the angrier she grew. He cheated. He lied. He murdered! He must own up.

Olivia grabbed her car keys and her handbag and left for the car. She was going back to the hospital to confront her husband.

On the way to the hospital, trying her best to contain her boiling rage, Olivia had a horrible thought: what if Bill in his hallucinations had blabbed in front of the nursing staff? What if he had confessed in his ramblings? Would a nurse have believed him and reported it to her supervisors, or would she have dismissed it as incoherent ravings caused by Alzheimer’s? What must she do about this?

Soon Olivia arrived at Bill’s room, to see a nurse checking his vitals and moving his body to a different position. ‘How’s he doing?’ she asked.

‘About the same. His pulse ox is normal, but his pulse is racing. He seems disturbed about something and has been trying to say things. But it’s mostly gibberish, doesn’t make much sense.’

‘He’s just started this since his stroke,’ Olivia said.

‘Yeah, maybe it unlocked memories that he just can’t spit out.’

I sure hope he doesn’t. ‘Well, thank you, nurse, for taking good care of him.’

‘You’re welcome. If you need anything, just press the Call button.’ She smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Olivia settled down slowly into the chair next to the bed, wincing at a pain in her right knee. ‘Well, dear, I’m back, and it’s just you and me,’ she said. ‘You know, I’ve been looking around in your office, and I found a Sydney Merritt in your grade books. Did you have an affair with her, my dear? For how long? Did you get her pregnant? Did you do something about that, Bill? Did you kill her? Did. you. kill. her?’ she said through gritted teeth, tears forming in her eyes. ‘You behaved at home like nothing happened. When you had sex with me, did you imagine I was Sydney? Wasn’t I enough for you?’

Bill began to shiver, his left hand and leg jerking. He tried to speak, but couldn’t do more than utter nonsense syllables.

‘I see what I said is making you nervous, Bill. It’s true, isn’t it? You carried on with a student and acted like the perfect husband when you were at home. You became a deacon at church, you taught Sunday School classes, with secret sin in your heart. And not just adultery, but murder. And now you’ve probably revealed it to the staff here. What am I going to do with you, Bill? What am I to do?’

Bill opened his eyes wide and looked up at Olivia, trying to mutter something, but it was no use. Fear spread across his face. What was he trying to say? It didn’t matter, though. She knew what she had to do. Wincing from back pain, she stood up from the chair and went over to the blinds over the hall window and closed them. Then she bent over the bed. She put a hand under Bill’s head and raised it up, pulling out the pillow with the other hand, then gently laid his head back down. Fluffing the pillow, tears clouding her eyes, she fixed her gaze on her faithless husband and said, ‘Goodbye, my love.’ Bill’s eyes widened further as he realized what his Livvy was about to do, and she covered his face with the pillow, pressing down hard. His good left hand tried to pull the pillow away, but it wasn’t strong enough. Olivia could hear his muffled grunts through the pressed pillow. After a minute his struggles ceased, and he was still.

Olivia removed the pillow to see Bill’s eyes still staring up in space, a sight that frightened her. She looked away as she replaced the pillow underneath his head. Then she went over to the blinds and opened them. Before she had a chance to press the Call button, a nurse opened the door and rushed in, having seen the room monitor at her station. Olivia cried, ‘He just opened his eyes and looked up and stopped breathing!’

…

After the funeral all the extended family left, except for their daughter Shelley and son Danny, who hung around the house to help clean up. They left the next day, and after she bid them goodbye, Olivia sat down heavily in the recliner and let out a long sigh. Apparently Bill had taken his secret to the grave. She had killed him but also protected his name and reputation. As she pondered the events of the past two weeks, she wondered if the body of Sydney Merritt had ever been found. She wondered if Sydney had even been reported as missing. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? She didn’t remember any local news in the late 70’s reporting a missing person, much less finding a body. Bill must have buried her where nobody would ever find her. Still, she was curious. How could she satisfy her curiosity and do it in private? Bill had a twelve-year-old computer in his office, his fourth one over the span of forty years. He was never one for replacing functional equipment with the newest model, whether it was vehicles or appliances or electronics. This computer was probably near the end of its life, but it was sufficient for Bill. She knew a little about internet searches. She decided to power it up and conduct a search for missing persons or discovered bodies in the region during the mid-to-late 1970’s. After nearly an hour of searching on Google, she found nothing. Then she searched for Sydney Merritt, which she thought had to yield more useful results.

Olivia was surprised to see at least a dozen Sydney Merritts from all over the country show up on people search sites. She had no idea how popular the name Sydney was. But she wasn’t going to pay those sites to learn details about the lives of those Sydney Merritts. Then she thought she would search on Facebook, unaware that Facebook posters were living persons, except for the ones who had passed away and whose accounts remained open. She had never used Facebook, but Bill had his own Facebook page, or whatever they called it. She opened Facebook and brought up Bill’s home page. So how do you use this? There were several “notifications” for Bill, which she ignored. Looking around the site, she found Search Facebook in the upper left corner of the page. She typed in Sydney Merritt and found several, not as many as on the people search site. She clicked on a number of the names, only to discover that they were all too young or living in England or Australia. Some of these women had married names, like Sydney Merritt Johnson. No. Too young. Sydney Merritt Busch. No. Too young. And besides, still alive. Olivia didn’t know why she had looked up these names on Facebook, as it wasn’t a news site.

Sydney Merritt Jackson. Dr. Sydney Merritt Jackson. Retired from Monsanto/Bayer Plant Science Division. This person looked interesting, though she was obviously not whom Olivia was looking for. That Sydney Merritt would have died about forty years ago. Still, she scrolled through the About page to learn what she could. This Sydney had been married in 1978, had celebrated her 40^th anniversary in 2018, and had two children and four grandchildren. She earned her Doctorate in Botany from the University of Iowa, a Master’s degree from Kansas University, and her B.S. in Botany from Central Missouri University. OK, that’s close, within the state. But just below Central Missouri University was another line. Attended Southern Missouri College. Majored in biology. This Sydney Merritt had attended Bill’s college before transferring to Central Missouri. And today she posted a picture of a gathering with her grandchildren. This Sydney Merritt is still alive.

This Sydney Merritt is still alive!