“Pack him up will you Joan. I've got one more upstairs
that died about eight. Seems like the
full moon's taken its toll."
Joan looked down at the withered corpse, so gaunt and
leathery. She'd been getting to know the old guy and felt sad to see him go. So
many of the fogies just bitched or drooled but he'd liked to talk sometimes,
especially when Joan was on the night shift and everyone else on the floor was
asleep. As she looked at his masked face she thought, "At least he had a
good run."
"Survived the war!" he'd said one night with a
deep throated chuckle, but mostly his reveries were of his wife. Joan didn't
know her name, he always just called her "Honey", but Joan had the
impression that after many happy years together they had drifted apart for some
reason, she didn't really know why, because mostly, when Bert had talked, it
was about the kids growing up.
Joan tipped him on his side and wondered why none of
them had ever come to see him. But that wasn't so unusual when she thought
about it though, but now someone would have to sign him out and take his
things, and Joan for some reason really hoped it could be his wife. She
remembered that Bert had said something about how grateful he'd felt that such
a young and beautiful woman had chosen him to give her heart. So she was
probably still alive.
"We were always happy though!" Bert had spoken
out above the medication, and he'd smiled like a zillion fragments spilling
through the waist of an hourglass.
BERTRAM HEDLEY JONES. NO RELATIVES KNOWN.
Joan took a look in the leather suitcase still under the
cot, surely there'd be letters. She'd only been working at the centre for a few
months and hadn't seen anything for him, but she knew he'd been there for a
couple of years so "there must be something".
Inside the case was a hand-knitted sweater, some
slippers still wrapped in plastic, and a few National Geographics. On top was a
small leather pouch in the centre of which was an intricately woven panel, and
inside the pouch were two letters. One was from the local council explaining
why their new scheme made it untenable for Bert to continue living where he was
because the whole area had been designated Nature Reserve.
The other letter was softer, and older. It was in a
square envelope with a small dragon printed in each corner; but there was no
address, or handwriting on it whatsoever. It was stuck down, so Joan
reluctantly opened it. If anyone was to do so she thought he'd have rather it
to be her. They'd shared a few quaint secrets.
Inside was a letter dated 3/12/45 , handwritten on thick blue paper. Joan
started reading, at first quickly, and then from the beginning again, more
slowly. It was obviously to his wife, soon after they had first met.
When Joan had finished reading she wiped the corner of
her I eye. She had HER dreams too, and Bert’d quizzed her on those when he'd
had his Benerols late at night. But now she knew the way Bert had really lived
his. He'd bitten the bullet, taken the risk, struck while the iron was hot.
Sure, in the end he'd died alone, but isn't that the best way to do it, and
those years together with his wife of sharing and selfless devotion; the
freedom and privilege of knowing that you are deeply loved; the whole family
thing that makes life worth living!
Joan took one last look at the tidy lines and griped to
herself as she put them away. "Look at me, I've not even got a boyfriend
and I hate this dead-end job!"
A few days later a red faced woman with white hair
arrived just as Joan was filling out her hours.
"I'm Mrs. Thomas. My brother was a resident here
until last week. You sent me a telegram informing me of his death."
"Oh, Mrs. Thompson," said Joan, "Pleased
to meet you. I didn't know that Bert had a sister! He sure was a nice old
fellow."
"You more than likely knew him better than I."
Mrs. Thomas said matter-of-factly, "We hadn't spoken for more than forty
years you know. Shame really." Joan was a bit unsure of what to say next
so she fetched the leather suitcase and opened it on the counter for Mrs. Thompson
who pushed a few things around as though she assumed they were dirty.
"Delicate work." she commented when she saw the pouch with the woven
panel.
"Yes, very beautiful, and there are a couple of
letters inside, too," Joan said defensively.
"Letters? Anything important? Does he owe anyone
money?"
"No, just a letter to his wife which I thought was
rather sweet."
Mrs. Thompson moved her eyebrows together, pulled out
the envelope and removed the letter as though it was a docket. "Heard he’d
a bit of a fling in Singapore
Joan watched Mrs. Thompson as she skimmed lines which
had brought tears to Joan’s red eyes. She shook her head and looked up,
"Typical Bertie, didn't have the guts to send it!
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