“Sure. I talk to her pretty often.”
“And she’s okay?”
“A lot better.”
This is the game we play, Toby and I. We both pretend we don’t know the truth.
“She’s finished with the beach, Toby.”
He mulls this over, nods, dips his fork into the steaming squash. “Can you do me a favor, Millie?”
“Sure, anything.”
He reaches into the pocket of his robe and brings out a sheet of notebook paper. The words on it are printed, almost illegible. I can imagine Toby hunched over at the Ace Club, where some of the old ones hang out, moving a pen up and down against the paper, putting his thoughts in order. I get the point. “Okay,” I tell him, and slip the sheet inside the old canvas bag, which slumps on the floor beside the bed like an aged and faithful pet.
“Can I watch another movie after this one?”
“Whatever you want. When you get tired, just pick up the phone and ring the desk. I’ll be up to tuck you in.”
“Don’t go,” he says quickly. “Stay here with me, Millie.”
I pat his hand. “Let me get a pitcher of iced tea and your slice of pie and I’ll be right back. Was it pumpkin or apple that you wanted, Toby?”
“Both.” He grins mischievously, dark spaces in his mouth where there should be teeth. He’s removed part of his denture.
“Both it is.”
Feathers doesn’t move as I get up; she knows the routine.
From the kitchen, I fetch iced tea for myself and two slices of pie for Toby and some treats for Feathers. In my bedroom, I bring out the Works, running my hands over the smooth, cool leather, remembering. I change into more comfortable clothes, cotton that breathes, that’s the color of pearls. Makeup next. A touch of eye shadow, mascara, blush, lipstick. The way I look is part of the Works. Sometimes the old ones ask me to hold them, stroke them, caress them, make love to them. Other times they just want to listen to Frank Sinatra and dance or they ask me to walk on the beach with them in the moonlight. Their requests are as different as they are, and I always comply. But with all of them, there’s a need for a special memory, an event that perhaps reminds them of something else. It’s as if this memory will accompany them, comfort them somehow, like a friend.
Toby is still watching the movie when I return. His supper plate is clean. His eyes widen when he sees the pieces of pie, and he attacks the apple first, devouring it with childlike exuberance, then polishes off the pumpkin as well. We watch the rest of the movie together, Feathers purring between us on the couch. Now and then, his chin drops to his chest as he nods off, but he comes quickly awake, blinking fast as if to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.
While the movie rewinds, I fold back the sheets on the bed. They’re sea blue, decorated with shells and seahorses, the same ones Mink slept in. “Can we listen to music?” he asks, crouching in front of the stereo on the other side of the room.
“Sure. Whatever you want. Choose an album.”
Harry Belafonte.
Toby gets up from the chair and holds out his arms and I move into them. I’m taller than he is, but it doesn’t matter. We sway, his silk robe rustling. I rest my chin on his head and feel all those wrinkles quivering, shifting, warm as sand against my skin. He presses his cheek to my chest, eyes shut. The lemon scent of his skin haunts me a little, reminds of all the old ones who have come here for the Works. I’ve loved each of them and love them still.
When the record ends, Toby and I stretch out on the king-size bed, holding each other, talking softly, the moon smack in the heart of the skylight now. He falls asleep with his head on my shoulder, and for a long time I lie there just listening to him breathe, watching stars against the black dome of sky above us.
The window is partially open, admitting a taste of wind, the scent of stars, the whispering sea. I imagine that death is like this window, opening onto a pastel world where everything is what you will it to be. Yellow skies, if that’s what you want. Silver seas. A youthful body. A sound mind. A family who cares. A state of grace.
And that’s my gift to the old ones.
I untangle my arms and rise, drawing the covers over Toby. His wrinkled head sinks into the pillow. I bring out the leather case. New York. My old life. The business with the nursing board. Such unpleasantness, really. Like the old ones, I have my secrets. I take the syringe from my leather case and fill it. I have trouble finding a vein in his arm. They’re lost in the folds of skin, collapsed beneath tissue, and I have to inject the morphine into his neck, just below his ear.
And then I wait.
Always, in the final moment, there’s something that seems to escape from the old shell of bones and flesh, an almost visible thing, a puff of air, a kind of fragrance, the soul released. It leaves Toby when he sighs, fluttering from his mouth like a bird, and sweeps through the crack in the window, free at last.
Funny, but the wrinkles on top of his skull don’t seen quite as deep now. His spine doesn’t look as hunched. If I tried, I know I could straighten out his fingers. But the most I do is kiss him goodbye.
I get rid of the syringe. Sammy will take care of getting Toby’s body to the pauper cemetery. There won’t be a headstone, of course. I do have to make some concessions. But the burial will be proper, with an old pine box and all.
I unzip his canvas bag for the sheet of paper I slipped in here earlier and read it over. The list of who gets what is simple; all the names are old ones who hang out at the Ace Club. His belongings are in the bag. I sling it over my shoulder and walk downstairs, where Sammy is still at the desk. He looks up and I nod. He reaches under the desk and switches on the VACANCY sign outside. I take his place at the desk and he leaves to tend to Toby.
Most of the old ones will know about Toby before they hear it from me. They’ll know because the only time the VACANCY sign goes on is when the Works are finished.
Tomorrow when I go down to the Ace, I’ll also pass out my card to newcomers. After all, I’ve got to drum up business just like anyone else. MILLIE’S PLACE. CHEAPEST RENT ON THE BEACH. GOOD FOOD. SPACIOUS ROOMS. THE WORKS.
Small Times
by James Carlos Blake
Flagler Dog Track
(Originally published in 1991)
The Loss
There was this guy I knew down in Miami, worked as a ticket seller at the dog track for a short time. Gordon. He had a routine for boosting his take-home. Strictly legit. (Tax-free, too. You tell the IRS everything? Not in this life.) Anyway, what Gordon did was, every time a guy at the window’d ask him what number to play, he’d tell him. Every race there’s guys asking him for the winning number. They figure he’s selling the tickets, he’s gotta know the winners. Only he’d give each guy a different number. Some races he got asked by so many guys, he’d go through all the entries nine, ten times before the windows closed. He was handing out that many winners some races. Sure, a lot of those guys were stiffs; they’d grab their winnings and split without even a thank you. But plenty of them were sports. They’d come back grinning, give him a wink, cut him a percent — anything from a fin to a C-note. End of the night, it added up. Told me he was taking it home in a wheelbarrow. The problem was with some of those guys he gave a bum number. He’d get some hard looks the next time they came to the window, sometimes some hard words. He’d give a tough-luck shrug and try not to make eye contact. Then one night a coupla apes who lost big on the number he gave them laid for him in the parking lot. Real sore losers. Took him off to the last nickel, then stomped him damn near to death. Both legs busted, most his ribs, face all mashed, you name it. He was a mess for months. Went broke on the hospital bills. I hear he’s in Orlando now. Sells insurance.