Mrs. Fletcher(11)

“Oh, God.” George didn’t look surprised. “That’s not good.”

“Some of the ladies were very upset.”

“I bet.”

Eve turned from the son to the father. She really hated this part of her job.

“Mr. Rafferty, I speak for the whole staff when I say that I’ve enjoyed your company over the years. You’ve been so kind and considerate to so many people, and everybody likes you. But I’m afraid you won’t be able to come here anymore. We can’t allow it. I’m sorry.”

“What?” George looked shocked. “You’re kicking him out?”

“I don’t have a choice. This is a community center. Your father needs a nursing home.”

“Can’t you give him one more chance?”

“We already did that,” she said. “George, this isn’t going to get better. You know that, right?”

“But he loves it here. This place is all he has left.”

“I’m not sure you understand.” Eve’s voice was soft but firm. “Your father was touching himself and saying some very inappropriate things. One of the witnesses wanted to call the police and file charges. It was all I could do to calm everyone down and let me handle it like this.”

George closed his eyes and nodded slowly. He must’ve known this moment was coming.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t watch him all day. My wife’s getting chemo. She’s in bad shape.”

“I’m sorry.” Eve had heard about the recurrence of Lorraine Rafferty’s cancer. That was the kind of news that spread quickly at the Senior Center. “I don’t know what to say.”

“She’s a fighter,” he said, but there wasn’t a lot of conviction in his voice. “It’s in her lungs and liver.”

“Oh, God. It must be really hard on you.”

“Our daughter’s taking the semester off. To watch her mother die.” He laughed at the sheer awfulness of it all. “And now I gotta deal with this shit?”

He glanced at his father, who was sitting patiently on the couch, humming to himself, as if he were waiting for his number to be called at the DMV.

“There are resources available for people like your dad,” Eve explained. “We have a social worker on staff who can talk you through your options.”

No one spoke for a while. George reached out and took his father’s hand. The old man didn’t seem to notice.

“It just sucks,” George said. “I hate to see him like this.”

“He’s a good man.” Even as she said this, Eve realized how rude it was to refer to Roy Rafferty in the third person, so she addressed him directly. “You’re a good man, Roy. We’re going to miss you.”

Roy Rafferty looked at Eve and nodded, as if he understood what she was saying and appreciated the kindness.

“Okey dokey,” he said. “How about we get some lunch?”

*

This happened on a sleepy Friday afternoon at the tail end of summer, no meetings or activities scheduled for the rest of the day. After the Raffertys left, Eve shut her office door and turned off the light. Then she sat down at her desk and wept.

It was hard sometimes, dealing with old people, having to cast out the unfortunate souls who could no longer control their bladders or bowels, trying to reassure the ones who couldn’t locate their cars in the parking lot, or remember their home address. It was hard to hear about their scary diagnoses and chronic ailments, to attend the funerals of so many people she’d grown fond of, or at least gotten used to. And it was hard to think about her own life, rushing by so quickly, speeding down the same road.

It didn’t help that she was staring into the abyss of Labor Day weekend, three blank, desolate squares on her calendar. She’d been so preoccupied by the logistics of getting Brendan off to school that she hadn’t even thought about trying to make plans until yesterday. First she’d called Jane Rosen—her most reliable dinner and movie and walk-around-the-reservoir companion—only to learn that Jane and Dave had made a spur-of-the-moment decision to get out of town. They were coping with empty nest issues of their own—they’d just dropped off their twin daughters at Duke and Vanderbilt—and thought that a couple of days at an inn on Lake Champlain might rekindle the romance in their marriage.

I’m terrified, Jane had confided. What if there’s no spark? What if we have nothing to talk about? What are we supposed to do then?

Eve did her best to be a good listener and a supportive friend—she owed Jane at least that much, having subjected her to countless heartbroken soliloquies during the darkest days of her own separation and divorce—but it hadn’t been easy. Jane was having second thoughts about a nightgown she’d bought, pale pink and diaphanous, very pretty, but maybe not the most flattering shade for her skin tone, especially with the hot flashes coming so frequently. And sex made her so sweaty these days, though Dave insisted that he didn’t mind. I guess I’m not feeling very attractive, she confessed. Eve murmured encouragement, reminding Jane that she was still beautiful and that Dave adored her, but it took all the restraint she possessed not to burst into laughter and say, Are you kidding me? That’s your problem? You sweat when your husband fucks you?

After Jane, she tried the rest of her usual suspects—Peggy, the mother of Brendan’s friend Wade; Liza, who’d been divorced and single even longer than Eve; and Jeanine Foley, her old college roommate—but no one was available on such short notice. Her only real alternative was to drive down to New Jersey and spend a couple of days with her widowed mother and never-married sister, who were living together in the house where Eve had spent her childhood. She was overdue for a visit, but it was always so exhausting to see them—they bickered constantly, like an old married couple—and she just didn’t have the patience right now.