Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [62]
I’ll call you.
Well, maybe.
Something Out of
Nothing
(a short story)
Freddy Robinson makes me sick. Honestly, I just hate old men who wear their pajamas all day long. I tell him that if he had a shred of self-respect and dignity left, he would get up in the morning and get dressed like the rest of us. But no. Five minutes before Lois clears breakfast he comes shuffling in wearing the same old slippers, rumpled gray pajamas, a three-day growth, hair jutting out in all directions, a big vapid yellow-toothed grin, and the same disgusting red plaid bathrobe he had on when he said good night. I swear, some night when he’s asleep I’m going to take that robe out in the street and burn it right in front of the house! He insists that my animosity stems from the fact that he routinely beats me at chess. He is wrong. When he mentions this he looks to the others for support, and they, inexplicably nod their heads as if now they understand the real reason for this unpleasantness over his unseemly toilet. It is a fact that his constant mastery of my game is a source of never-ending torment to me. Much worse than the pain in my hip or the nagging worry over the numbness in my leg and the financial strain of keeping up my treatments. But it is the sight of him, his odious demeanor, and his obvious disdain for the sensibilities of others that annoys me to the point of distraction.
Barbara is the nurse I have hired to come in every afternoon and see that the house members are all in good shape. After losing Ida the way we did, it’s a comfort to know there is someone nearby. It’s rather like having a mechanic on duty, but better. I like large fannies and I have made it absolutely clear to her and to anyone else who might be interested that I hired her because of her big rear end. Anyone who doesn’t like it can take their twelve hundred dollars a month and go die someplace else. Barbara has taken a liking to us and drops in from time to time when off duty. Sometimes she’ll take one of us to the theater or to see a film or just out for a ride to enjoy a beautiful morning. Barbara’s grandfather was in vaudeville; she grew up around show people, so we have something we can talk about. Barbara may have figured out that my Tuesday afternoon luncheons with my nephew Kevin are purely fictitious, but she has the common sense to keep that intelligence to herself. After my treatments, I always enjoy a couple of whiskeys at the Lodge. This gives a festive touch to the deception when I return.
We live in a Big Old House, which I bought at an estate sale many years ago. There is an extra bedroom that goes unrented that we use for a quiet room and library. Janelle spends most of her time there, as do I. Most people our age live in constant fear of nursing homes or old-age homes. We are fortunate to have this alternative. I let them think that their membership here is democratic. We take a vote, then, if things don’t turn out the way we thought, well, changes are made. After all, it is my house and I am the one who will quietly handpick the people I choose to die with. Except for Freddy. I’m not sure how he got here. And although he is the one who is usually stirring up the others, who, for some unfathomable reason, seem terribly fond of him, he is easily anticipated and overruled.
The Big Old House also has a fabulous front porch where, during fine weather, most of us want to be. Gina invites friends to play cards. Freddy pretends to read but just sits there waiting for cars to go by. He scowls at the local kids with a truly ugly countenance. In that regard, he’s better than a watchdog. Ed sits up in the evenings and listens to ball games on the radio. My favorite time of day is just before dawn when I can have the porch all to myself. I put on a collar and tie. Nice slacks and shoes. A sport coat. I step out onto the platform to the applause of crickets, the neighbor’s cats, and the cars parked along the street. The street lamp across the way looks like a great white spot.
“Ladies and gentlemen:”
It always began with