Keep Ticking
by Alan Gartenhaus
A sore back didn’t stop Yelena from smiling as she wrapped Mr. Phillips’ arms around her neck and lifted him from the bed. Though he had lost weight, the dampened sheet made sliding him to the edge difficult, and the plastic mattress protector resisted, adding its complaint. She lowered him onto the shower chair and wheeled him into the stall. She’d run the hot water to warm the bathroom and had towels at the ready as he was easily chilled. Yelena had long overcome any shyness while bathing residents. She knew massaging their fragile bodies with soap and water soothed them.
After drying him, she dressed him in underclothes and wheeled him to the bedroom, where he could see his reflection in the mirror. “Who’s the old guy?” he asked with a wry smile. Yelena glanced at the framed wedding picture on his dresser. As a young man, Mr. Phillips bore a resemblance to the father she’d lost when she was fifteen, and whom she’d named her son after. Both men had jovial, impish expressions––though over the years, Mr. Phillips had acquired a frown that gave him a dour appearance, reflective of gravity more than attitude.
She swept his military hairbrush across his head. “Like raking grass in the desert,” he said. “I’m thinking about growing a mustache.” He looked up at her. “What do you say?”
She shook her head. “Too much trouble.” She slipped his arms into the sleeves of a white shirt and buttoned it. “Bowtie?” she asked, holding the clip-on. It was the only tie he owned. Though Mr. Phillips would protest, Yelena knew he enjoyed being fussed over. “Will make you look cute.”
“You mean cuter?” he said. He closed his eyes as she attached the tie to his collar.
An attendant came to push Mr. Phillips to the dining room. Other residents needed Yelena’s assistance. On the ride, the orderly talked to Mr. Phillips with sing-song buoyancy. “Enjoy yourself,” he said, depositing Mr. Phillips at a table with snacks. “I’ll be back for you in a little while.”
Mr. Phillips watched as other residents were ushered into the room. Eventually, Yelena joined them, standing just inside the doorway. Florescent lighting made everything, and everyone, in the place look two-dimensional. Nothing warm or welcoming softened the space, and the fake Christmas tree put on a table was simply sad. Sound reverberated off the easy-to-clean hard surfaces. Bilious-green Formica countertops and vinyl tile flooring. The music playing on the intercom sounded tinny, and the balloons and banner strung across the ceiling shouting “Happy New Year” conveyed little joy.
A staff member offered him a cracker topped with yellow cheese, which he declined. She returned giving out plastic cups half-filled with sparkling apple juice, urging Mr. Phillips to “Use two hands” as he received one.
“Pretend champagne?” he asked. The lady didn’t answer. “I used to enjoy a belt of Scotch. Can’t imagine having one now could hurt me none.” She wasn’t listening.
A woman who worked at the front desk backed Mr. Phillips’ chair into a corner. Yelena walked over to make sure that he was facing the room; that he could see everything going on. He thanked her. “You’d never know it but, once-upon-a-time, I was a fairly good dancer,” he told Yelena. “My wife and I were great partners on the dance floor. She was graceful and very responsive.” He shook his head. He couldn’t remember how many years ago his wife had died. Could be eight; could be twelve. “Had always assumed she would outlive me. That she would care for me when I couldn’t care for myself. Hope you know I appreciate what you do for me, Yelena. I never expected to wind up in a place like this.”
For years, he had been fit. A runner. He’d known the glorious rhythm of going on and on for miles without effort, his joints feeling well-lubricated and working in unison, like a machine. He longed to experience that again. Now, he could barely move his wheelchair without help. These most precious days were slow and boring. He used to fantasize about the many things he would do when he retired, never realizing how long it would take him to do the simplest tasks, like putting on his shoes and tying the laces.
Yelena excused herself and walked across the room, greeting an entering resident, and sending her in Mr. Phillips’ direction. The woman scooted along the tile floor holding onto a metal walker with bright orange tennis balls at the bottoms of its front legs. Her back was rounded, and her head topped with an unruly mop of curly white hair. Her face grew bright and smile larger as she approached him. “Mind if I join you?” she asked. She didn’t wait for a response. “Like your tie,” she said as she took a seat.
“New Year’s Eve,” he replied.
“And isn’t it wonderful?” She clasped her arthritic hands together. “We get to welcome in another year! I never imagined I’d live this long.” She paused as if expecting him to say something similar. “I’m Jeannie,” she continued, reaching up and pushing her hair around. “Not Jeannie with the light brown hair. At least not anymore.”
He smirked, realizing they were engaged in a conversation, something he thought he might have wanted, but now found irritating. “Ralph,” he responded brusquely. “Ralph Phillips.”
“Ralph,” she repeated. “A name for someone strong and bold.”
“Not anymore.” He forced a smile. “As you said.”
“So, Ralph, did you make your resolutions yet?”
He assumed she was kidding. “Haven’t done that since I was a kid. Why? Have you?”
“Always do. A few each year.”
“And you keep them?”
She rocked her head from side-to-side. “Every once in a while, one takes root. Nice to have goals, don’t you think?”
He repressed a scoff and struggled for something to say. “What are yours?”
“Oh, I never tell other people. They’re like birthday wishes. They won’t come true if you talk about them.”
“What about one you made years ago?”
She smiled––a big smile, with dimples, as she considered what she might share. “To find something good in everything and everyone.”
He waved his hand, immediately dismissing that as silly. “I don’t remember seeing you before,” he said.
She shook her head. “Just moved here a couple of weeks ago. I’d been living with my daughter, but it was getting hard for her.”
He never forgot being sent there with no choice in the matter. A stroke had taken away his strength and coordination. His four children had decided this was best for him. They no longer lived close and had their own lives. They weren’t about to care for him, and he wouldn’t have wanted them to do that anyway. Over the years, their visits had become less frequent. “Found anything good about this place?” he asked.
“Lots,” she said. “I’m no longer a burden. My daughter and I see each other as equals.”
He pouted, conceding her point. “Forgive my French, but this getting older thing sucks. There isn’t one part of me that doesn’t hurt.”
“If we didn’t hurt, we’d never let go of these bodies we live in.”
“Good Lord,” he said somewhat amused, and noticing that Yelena was watching them. “Aren’t you full of that well-known stuff.”
Her laughter ended in a brief coughing fit. “Aging is a privilege. Think of all the people who died young and would have loved more time. If you’re still ticking, you still have possibilities.”
“Ha. Just wait until you get to be my age. Perhaps you’ll feel different.”
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Ninety this September.”
She interlaced her bent fingers as if in prayer. “I hardly know what to say. Last November, I turned ninety-six.” She leaned close and whispered, “I’ve always had a thing for younger men.”
He was relieved when an attendant came to escort Jeannie back to her room. Before standing, she reached over, took hold of Mr. Phillips’ wrist, and felt for a pulse. “Yep. You’re still ticking,” she said, releasing his arm. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, come to the library around eleven.” She smiled. “I’m going to read a story to some of the kids visiting family here. Gives the grown-ups a chance to talk about serious stuff without children in the room.”
He exhaled. If he wasn’t doing anything? When was he ever doing anything––tomorrow or any other day? As Jeannie followed the attendant into the hallway, Yelena returned to push Mr. Phillips back to his room. “Nice lady?” she asked. He shrugged.
The next morning, Yelena brought a paper plate with four large cookies, placing them on Mr. Phillips’ tray beside his uneaten breakfast. “My mother and I make these for the new year. Eat,” she instructed. “They bring good luck.”
He knew she was determined not to let him starve, which he had considered doing. He brought a cookie to his face, pretending to admire it, but was smelling it. He took a small bite. It had a delicate crumb, like shortbread. Not too sweet. Slivered almonds. A hint of anise.
“Good, huh?” she said. He nodded. “Even better with coffee.” She picked up the pink plastic cup of lukewarm coffee from his tray and handed it to him. He took a sip. She waited for him to eat the rest of the cookie, opening the window blinds to let more light into the room. “What do you want to do today?”
Eight fidgety children sat at a long table in the library. Jeannie was not yet there. Yelena positioned Mr. Phillips near the head of the table. A clock on the wall read ten after eleven. Someone called to Yelena, asking that she come to the hallway.
The old man looked at the children. One, a boy of about five, was quietly crying. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
The boy wiped the tears from his face, but said nothing.
The man patted his lap. “Want to sit with me?”
The child shook his head.
Yelena returned with a children’s book. “Jeannie is having a slow morning,” she said, handing the book to him. “You start. She’ll come as soon as she can.” Yelena unfolded his reading glasses and gave them to him.
Taken off-guard, Mr. Phillips recited the title aloud. Gray Whiskers: A Kid’s Guide for Loved Ones Growing Older. He showed the children the cover and began to read. From that moment, they were rapt. The boy who had been crying stared at him with glistening eyes. After turning several pages, he found a note tucked inside, keep ticking, written in a shaky hand. He glanced up. Yelena and Jeannie were standing in the doorway, looking quite pleased. He scowled and shook his head. Then his attention returned to his audience. He smiled and continued reading.
Alan Gartenhaus is the author of short stories in literary journals and magazines, including that of the University of Chicago and the Santa Fe Literary Review. Winner of the editor’s choice award from the literary magazine of the University of San Francisco, and a winner of the 2022 Stories through the Ages Contest, his recent novel, Balsamic Moon, received accolades from The Kirkus Review, The Book Commentary, and the Independent Book Review. Formerly, a curator at the New Orleans Museum of Art, an education specialist for the Smithsonian Institution, and a director at Cornish College of the Arts in Seattle, Alan Gartenhaus lives and writes on the island of Hawaii.