I walk up Mr. Sparrow’s driveway, wondering if it’s better to try the front or the back door. The back, I decide. I still can’t get over the size of his garden. It takes up most of the yard. I don’t know how he manages to do it all himself. It looks as though the corn is coming in now. I’ll expect a basket on my front porch in a matter of days. I open the screen door and knock loudly. I wait for a couple of seconds, then press the bell. Nothing. I slide the key Mr. Sparrow gave me a few years back into the lock and take a deep breath. The door opens. A smell like wet newspaper greets me.
“Mr. Sparrow? Are you home?”
I step up into the kitchen. A saucepan sits next to the sink. Two tomatoes rest on the windowsill. Newspapers and envelopes cover the kitchen table. I shake my head. He needs to tidy up. A cellophane tube of crackers lies next to a magnifying glass. His refrigerator clicks and starts to hum. I stop in my tracks, trying to listen over the sound of it. I go into the living room, but he’s not there, either. The next place to check is the bedroom. I turn to face the hall. I’m not sure I can do it.
“Mr. Sparrow?” It comes not as a question, but as a request. As though I’m the one that needs to be found. I take a step into the hall. A floorboard creaks under my foot. The bedroom door is open. I squeeze my hands together in a prayer formation and press them against my lips. I have to do this. I have to go inside. What if he’s suffering?
“Mr. Sparrow?”
There’s a noise behind me. I whip around and see a band of light shining under the bathroom door.
“Mr. Sparrow!” I yell, hurrying down the hall. “Are you in there?”
His voice is weak and low. “I haven’t got any valuables, so you best be on your way.”
I nearly collapse with relief. “Mr. Sparrow, it’s Joyce. Are you all right?”
“Oh. Joyce. Is that you? There are some tomatoes in the kitchen for you.”
“Never mind about the tomatoes! Are you all right?”
“Well, I seem to have fallen.”
“Fallen?
” I try the door but it won’t open. “Is this locked?”
“Yes,” Mr. Sparrow says.
“Why do you lock the bathroom door if you’re the only one here?”
“I’m a private person.”
“I’ll have to pick it. Do you have a bobby pin?”
“A doggie pen?”
“A BOBBY PIN! To pick the lock!” I’m somewhere between laughing and screaming.
“Check the kitchen drawer by the sink. Every useless thing I own is in there.”
I hurry to the kitchen and start rummaging through the drawer. It’s filled with elastic bands and pens and bottle openers and other sorts of junk. I think of Mrs. Pender and her purse. But there’s no bobby pin. I find a miniature screwdriver, hoping it will work.
“Are you in pain?” I yell as I wiggle the screwdriver into the lock.
“No more than usual.”
The lock turns over and I open the door. There, in the middle of the bathroom floor, lies Mr. Sparrow. He’s dressed, thank god, wearing blue pyjamas and brown slippers. I’m struck by his smallness. He’s no bigger than the bath mat. In his hand, he holds a toothbrush.
“You poor man.” I bend down. “How long have you been like this?”
“I don’t know. One minute I was brushing my teeth. The next, I was on the floor. What time is it?”
“I don’t know exactly. A little after seven-thirty, anyway. I saw your blinds were down so I came over. I’m calling an ambulance. You stay here.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Mr. Sparrow says. There’s a slight panic in his voice, but I ignore it. When I return, he’s sitting up, his back against the wall.
“I told you not to move!”
“Get me my bathrobe, will you? It’s hanging behind my bedroom door.”
“For god’s sake, stay put!”
“I was going to have my bath this morning.” He sounds as though he’s talking more to himself than to me. “I guess I can scratch that off my to-do list.”
“You shouldn’t be taking baths,” I say, returning with the bathrobe. I hold it out and watch him slip one thin arm in, then the other.
“I may be old, but I don’t want to smell,” he says. “I grab hold of the towel bar for support.”
“I don’t know how secure that is.” I glance up at the bar, thinking of my own. “You should have someone here when you take your bath. I’ll come over and watch TV until you’re done. Or we’ll get you one of those plastic chairs to put in the tub.”
Mr. Sparrow sighs and ties the bathrobe belt around his waist. “Next you’ll be installing one of those raised toilet seats. The beginning of the end.” He reaches over and places his hand over mine. I think it’s the first time we’ve touched.
“Joyce, you don’t have to take care of me. I’m not your responsibility.”
“You’re no trouble at all,” I say.
“You can see that I’m all right, can’t you? No broken bones. Maybe a bruise or two, but that’s all. I still have my wits about me. My name is Hal Sparrow. I live at 297 Marian Street. See? Tell me you know that I’m all right.”
“I don’t know that you haven’t broken anything. But you seem all right to me.”
“I can cook for myself, too. Last night, I had potatoes and sausages for dinner. And I keep a tidy house. I even cut my fingernails yesterday.” He holds up a hand for inspection. Thick ridges run down his nails.
“Very nice,” I say. “But why are you telling me this?”
He grabs my sleeve. “Because I have to come home again. I need you to tell the doctors that I can take care of myself. My garden, this house. It’s all I have left in the world.”
“Of course,” I say, my eyes following a tear as it runs down his cheek. “You’ll be back. I promise.”
“An accident.” Mr. Sparrow dabs his cheek with the square of toilet paper I pass him. “That’s all it was. They happen all the time, Joyce. Don’t they?”
——
The paramedic tells me it could have been a mini-stroke.
“It’s hard to say at this stage,” he says. He looks twelve. “But don’t worry. Your husband is in good hands now.”
“He’s not my husband,” I say. “He’s my neighbour.” I hand him a grocery bag with Mr. Sparrow’s medications, his wallet, eyeglasses and anything else I could think of.
“Please water the garden,” Mr. Sparrow says in a shaking voice as he’s wheeled into the ambulance. “And keep the birds out of the fruit trees.”
They’re taking him to the hospital in Andover. Balsden General is full. The other paramedic asks if I’m planning to follow.
“I don’t drive on the highway,” I explain. “But I’ll call to find out how he’s doing.”
“Any next of kin?”
“There’s a nephew. I have his number somewhere.”
I stand in Mr. Sparrow’s kitchen and watch the ambulance pull out of the driveway. Across the street, my own house stares back at me.
CHAPTER SIX
“I
T’S NOT GOOD
for him to be on his own,” Mr. Sparrow’s nephew says when I call him. His name is Gerald.
“We keep a close eye on one another,” I say.
“Well, that’s all fine and dandy. But Christ almighty. What is he? Ninety?”
“Eighty-seven,” I say. I’m tempted to tell Gerald he doesn’t sound like a spring chicken himself. His voice is wheezy. Must be a smoker.
“Well,” Gerald says, “close enough.”
He coughs and I swear I can feel his spittle in my ear canal. I should never have called this man but I had no choice. He’s the only family Mr. Sparrow has ever mentioned. All Smoker Gerald is likely concerned with is how much money his uncle has in the bank. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked me to send him Mr. Sparrow’s statements. Gerald suggests that a “place” for his uncle would be the best option. I hear the quotation marks dangling around the word. Somewhere, he says, that they can keep tabs on him.
“Wild horses couldn’t drag that man into a nursing home,” I say. “He’s too independent.” I spot a fly making its way across my kitchen counter and reach for the swatter. “There’s a lot of life left in him.”
“Sometimes,” Gerald says, “decisions need to be made. Difficult ones.”
Mr. Sparrow told me once that Gerald has never come to visit. Imagine having your fate rest in the hands of a dimwit like this. I lose sleep some nights, thinking that Mark and Marianne may be making similar decisions for me.
“You’ll have to discuss this with your uncle,” I say. I stand poised with the fly swatter. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of something black. I turn my body slowly. The fly is on the stovetop, running around in tiny circles. “He’s not dead, you know. Or senile.”
I raise the swatter and bring it down with a snap. The fly takes off for the window. It shakes itself angrily against the glass.
Gerald wants to know what the doctor had to say. I’ve already told him. Twice.
“The doctor said he can come home tomorrow. He just needs to take it easy.”
“And who are you again?”
“I’m his neighbour,” I say tersely, then add, “and friend.”
“How is he getting home?”
The fly lands on the kitchen table. It’s motionless, staring me down, a dot of metallic green. John’s jacket. He loved that green jacket. I bring the swatter down, hitting the fly. It falls to the floor.
“I’m picking him up,” I say defiantly before ending the conversation, knowing full well I can’t drive all the way to Andover. Just the thought of taking the highway makes my stomach contract, but I’ll find a way to get there.
I bend over and press the iridescent fly between the folds of a Kleenex and deposit it in the garbage.
He was late coming home from school that day. Something was wrong. I sensed it. I stood on the front porch and watched for him, dread building like storm clouds.
“Perhaps he stopped to talk to a friend,” I reasoned, my hands working an invisible piece of dough. “Or the teacher asked him for help.”
It wouldn’t have been out of place. John’s grade eight teacher, Mrs. Myner, often had him stay behind and help her with her bulletin boards or wipe down the chalkboards. She was all of four-foot-nothing and couldn’t reach as well as John. He’d shot up in height right after his thirteenth birthday. I was startled one day to turn around and find myself looking straight into his eyes—hazel, the same colour as mine.
“John is very courteous,” Mrs. Myner had said at the last parent–teacher meeting. “Sensitive, too.”
I nodded and waited. But there was no talk of kitchen sets or games of tag. No comments about questionable behaviour. The only subject he needed to improve in was math.
“Oh?” I relaxed in the chair.
“He’s trying,” Mrs. Myner said sympathetically. “Perhaps it’s something you could help him with in the evenings.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at math either,” I said and laughed. My belly shook and immediately I pressed my hands against the widening swath beneath my skirt. Where had this fat come from? I’d wondered as I stood in front of the mirror that morning, holding my midsection as if it was a fish. Is this what happens to women after thirty?
“Men tend to be better at math,” Mrs. Myner said. “Maybe it’s something Mr. Sparks could help with.”
“Mr. Sparks—” I began, but I wasn’t sure where my words were headed. In the past few years, the divide between my husband and son had grown wider. John seemed to have graduated from a general awkwardness around his father to visible disdain. They didn’t speak to one another so much as utter syllables. I was certain I felt my son drifting away from me as well.
He’d continued to gain weight. It bothered me to see him standing next to his cousins. He looked so downtrodden, his physicality cumbersome and waterlogged. But he wasn’t what you’d call fat. Just chubby. Husky. I’d see to fixing things if I felt his weight crossed a line. Still, my hands balled into fists every time I heard those kitchen cupboard doors open.
“Do something,” I’d say to John.
“Do what?” he’d ask, holding his bowl of chips or a stack of cookies defensively against his chest.
“Anything,” I’d say, and hold off what I really wanted to say:
Anything but eat
.
“I’ll ask my husband to give John some help with math,” I said to Mrs. Myner.
“Some students experience difficulty when they get to high school.” I noted an edge of caution in her tone. “Just make sure the lines of communication are open between the three of you.”
Her words came back to me as I took a step down from the porch. There was no sign of John. I stood on my tiptoes, angling to get a better view of the schoolyard, and wrapped my sweater tightly around me. The last of the winter was over, thankfully, but a dead chill lingered. Tree branches scraped the sky. I would’ve walked over, but there were cookies in the oven. Snickerdoodles. John’s favourite. The other day, he’d placed second in the speech contest sponsored by the Optimist Club of Balsden, and I baked them in celebration. He had to write something under the theme of “My Responsibility Involvement.” John’s speech highlighted the importance of helping neighbours. He spoke about how he helped Mr. Sparrow rake his lawn after Mr. Sparrow had broken his arm.
“We all have a responsibility,” my son said to the audience. “To our parents, our neighbours and most importantly, to ourselves. When we take care of others, our hearts take care of us.”
I wept and Charlie passed me a crinkled tissue. His eyes had a faint sheen to them too, and when John stepped down from the stage, he clapped louder than anyone else.
John should’ve won. There was little doubt about that, but the judges picked a little girl in a pink dress and pigtails who talked about her grandfather dying in World War One. It was obvious the judges were partial to her because she was cute. Still, my son seemed pleased with himself when he went up on stage to accept his second-place plaque. I stood to get a better look, but Charlie pulled me down before apologizing to the couple behind us.
“It’s my son,” I explained. “He’s been working on his speech for weeks.”
Their placid faces told me their child didn’t place. I asked John on the car ride home if he was disappointed about not taking first place.
“Not really,” he said, his finger tracing the spot on the plaque where his name would go. “I’m happy enough.”
“Well, you should’ve won,” I said. “You were much better than that girl.”